Money, Money, Money

9 .

IT REALLY UPSET Nikmaddu Zarzour to be treated like a terrorist. Even if he looked like one. Even if hewas one. Which, in fact, he happened to be.

The problems started the moment he transferred from Air France's flight 613 from Damascus to Paris, onto their connecting flight 006 to the United States. He was wearing a black linen suit, a white shirt without a tie, and a little red fez of the sort favored by Turkish gentlemen though he was neither Turkish nor a gentleman. On the Syrian leg of the flight, he was merely another Arab, his complexion the color of desert sand, his black mustache neatly trimmed, a single gold tooth occasionally glinting in the upper left hand corner of his mouth. But the moment he transferred planes in Paris he became someone whose shabby-looking suitcase and clothes called him to the attention of the security guard who was boarding the 3:15P.M. flight to the States. It never occurred to the guard that if Nikmaddu were truly a terrorist-which, in fact, he was-he would have been carrying a Louis Vuitton suitcase or something less likely to call attention to his appearance. The guard riffled through his meager belongings, and then questioned-and confiscated-the little box of fresh figs Nikmaddu said he was taking to the U.S. for his maiden aunt. The guard did not suspect that the battered and scarred brown leather suitcase contained a false bottom. He could not have imagined that close to two million dollars in U.S. currency was neatly layered along the bottom of the suitcase; X-ray machines do not pick up paper.

And, of course, there was the same hassle coming through Customs and Immigration here on the eastern shores of the munificent United States of America, even though his passport was in order, even though he showed them a visa, little did it matter to them. He looked like a terrorist, ergo hewas a terrorist. Which, in fact, he was. But it rankled.

Now …

At last.

"Uhlan wa-Sahian."Welcome.

"Ahlan Bikum,"Nikmaddu said.

The proper reply, in plural because he was talking to three of them. He had never met any of them before. The men introduced themselves now. One of them, the obvious leader, sported a tiny uptilted mustache that made him look as if he were smiling. He had been trained in Afghanistan, was said to have links with the Egyptian Islamic Jihad.

"Ismi Mahmoud Gharib,"he said. My name is Mahmoud Gharib.

The second man had the harsh, leathery look of a desert camel driver, deep creases on his brown face, thick veins standing out on the backs of his strong hands. He told Nikmaddu his name was Akbar. He had the unsettling grin of a shark, all teeth and no sincerity. He was their demolitions expert.

The man who introduced himself as Jassim had the look of a pit viper, small and dark and pock-marked. His handshake was remarkably strong, his fingernails encrusted with a deep dark residue, perhaps the traces of explosive powders or oils. He was the one who would go in with the bomb.

One who smiles only with his mustache, Nikmaddu thought, another who smiles with false teeth, and a third-with dirty fingernails-who does not smile at all.

"So you're here at last," the third one said. Jassim.

"Il-Hamdu-Allah,"Nikmaddu answered. Thanks be to God.

"Was it a pleasant flight?" Akbar asked. All false glittering smile and bright dark eyes.

Nikmaddu shrugged.

"Did you bring the money?" Mahmoud asked. Mustache smiling. A direct question. Without the money, there would be no explosives. Without the money, there would be no preparations. Without the money, there would be no escape routes afterward, no safe passages home. Without the money, there would be nothing.

"I brought the money," Nikmaddu said.

And now they could discuss the business at hand.

THE APARTMENT they were meeting in was rented by Mahmoud himself. He was already three months in arrears, another reason for him having asked so soon about the money, his bloodsucking Jew landlord threatening eviction on an almost daily basis. The apartment was in a four-story walkup in a section of the city called Majesta after Her Majesty, the late lamented virgin queen of England, when these United States were still colonies. Once upon a time, Majesta was inhabited by Irish immigrants. Then it became Italian. Then it became Puerto Rican. Now it was populated largely by immigrants-many of them illegal-from third-world nations in the Middle East. The men sat sipping strong Turkish coffee as they looked out past the swirling snow to the towers of the Majesta Bridge in the misty distance. Jassim would have loved to wire that bridge with explosives, but Mahmoud was of a more conservative bent.

It was Mahmoud's opinion that all successful terrorist acts were premised on what had happened in Algiers almost half a century ago. It was there that the Arab struggle for independence from France began in 1954, culminating in July of 1962, when the Democratic and Popular Government of Algeria was formed. It was during those eight years that terrorism discovered its claws and its fangs. It was then that women wearing long dresses as prescribed in the Koran-O prophet, tell your wives, your daughters, and the wives of the believers that they shall lengthen their garments. Thus, they will be recognized and avoid being insulted-wearing as well thehijab that covered all of the face except the eyes, and thekhimar that covered their bosoms, strolled unrecognized into grocery stores or onto buses, carrying shopping bags full of high explosives which they conveniently left behind while they went home to their families.

The world of terrorism-Mahmoud now told Nikmaddu-had expanded too greatly. The leaders were thinking too big. Their plans were too grandiose. Why bomb a World Trade Center in New York or a Federal Building in Oklahoma City or a U.S. Embassy in Nairobi or Dar es Salaam? Why bring down an airplane over Lockerbie or LaGuardia? Events such as these only created intense scrutiny and enormous animosity. Why not settle instead for leaving a small bomb in a cinema? Or a railroad station? Why not compromise instead for leaving a satchel with explosives under a sixth row orchestra seat at Clarendon Hall on the night Svi Cohen would be playing Beethoven's "Spring" sonata in F Major, or his "Kreutzer" in A Minor, or whichever other tune the Big Jew chose to perform on his accursed Zionist fiddle?

"Why not committiny acts of terrorism that will allow them to realize we can strike anywhere, anytime we choose?" Mahmoud asked.

"Clarendon Hall is not so tiny," Akbar said, grinning.

"You understand my point," Mahmoud said reasonably to Nikmaddu.

"I understand your point," Nikmaddu answered reasonably.

He was enjoying the coffee. He was not so sure he was enjoying the terrorist beliefs of a half-lira philosopher like the man with the comic mustache here. Nikmaddu himself had worked with Osama bin Laden on the Dhahran bombing attack in which nineteen U.S. servicemen were killed. It was his own belief that onlymajor attacks of terrorism would leave any impression at all on the forces of evil polluting the Arab world. Only desperation measures would provoke wholesale departures. The withdrawal of all U.S. and western forces from Moslem countries in general and from the Arabian Peninsula in particular was the stated goal ofal Quaida. Killing all Americans, including civilians, everywhere in the world was merely a means toward this end. But Nikmaddu was nothing if not a faithful servant of God. Someone higher up had ordered the Clarendon Hall bombing. He was here merely to serve.

They sat sipping coffee.

"Tell me the plan," Nikmaddu said.

THE OWNER OF Diamondback Books was named Jotham Davis. He was in his early forties, Ollie guessed, a black man with an entirely bald and very shiny head. He was wearing black jeans, black loafers, and a black turtleneck sweater. A gold chain hung around his neck, dangling to somewhere in the middle of his narrow chest. He told them that in the Bible, Jotham was the youngest of Gideon's seventy sons. He told them things were quiet after Christmas. He told them fifty percent of a bookstore's sales were in the three months before Christmas. He told them if a bookstore didn't make it at Christ-mastime, it might as well fold. Ollie thought he was full of shit. That was because Ollie figured a Negro couldn't possibly know anything about selling books.

It was now almost twelve noon on the twenty-eighth day of December, three days before New Year's Eve, six minutes or so before lunch time. Ollie was always aware of the clock, but only because it announced mealtimes. He and Carella had been in the shop for almost ten minutes now, listening to this bald jackass telling them about the book business when all they wanted was information about Jerome Hoskins who'd been shot at the back of the head and stuffed in a garbage can four days ago.

"You sell many books from Wadsworth and Dodds?" Ollie asked. "In the three months before Christmas?" He was thinking these people would probably be his publishers once he finished his book, so he wanted to know how well their books sold.

"Not too many," Jotham said. "They publish mostly technical stuff, you know."

"What do you mean, technical?" Carella asked.

"Engineering stuff, architectural. Like that."

"How about thrillers?" Ollie asked.

"Haven't seen any thrillers from them," Jotham said.

"They told me they do some thrillers."

"Maybe so. I just haven't seen any."

"Did their salesman mention any thrillers to you?"

"No, I don't recall him mentioning any thrillers."

"Man named Jerome Hoskins? He never mentioned any thrillers to you?"

"No, I don't think so."

"When's the last time he came by?" Carella asked.

"Must've been in September? Maybe October. Sometime around then. That's when most of the reps come around. Right after they have their sales conferences."

"Was he in here last week?" Ollie asked.

"Nossir."

"Two days before Christmas, to be exact."

"Nossir, he definitely was not in here two days before Christmas."

"You read newspapers?" Ollie asked.

"I do."

"You watch television?"

"I do."

"Read or see anything about Hoskins in the past few days?"

"No, I didn't. What happened to him?"

"How do you know anything happened to him?" Carella asked.

Jotham gave him a look that said Man, when you were born and raised in this neighborhood and two cops come calling on you one fine morning, and start asking questions about the last time a sales rep was in here, you know damn well they ain't here to buy no book about electrical engineering.

"Thanks for your time," Carella said.

Not three blocks away from the bookstore, Wiggy the Lid was talking to the bartender at the Starlight Bar, where he'd met one of the blondes who'd cold-cocked him on Christmas night.

"I NEVER SEED HER before that night," the bartender said.

"Just walked in out of the blue, is that it, John?"

"That's what it was, Mr. Wiggins."

"She ever been in here before?"

"Don't recollect seeing her."

"Or another blonde looked just like her?"

"I'd've remembered somebody looked like that," John said.

"Neither one of them come in here, ast did a man named Wiggy Wiggins frequent this place?"

"No, neither one of 'em, Mr. Wiggins."

"Man named Wiggy the Lid? Did either one of 'em come in here, ax for me by that name?"

"Nobody come in here axin for you by no name at all."

"Cause I think she come in lookin for me, John."

"I wouldn't know about that."

"I think she knew I'd be here, come in here lookin for me specific."

John the bartender clucked his tongue in sympathy.

"Found out somehow that I drop in here every now and then, come in here toget me, John."

John the bartender clucked his tongue again.

"You didn't happen to see me get in that limo with her, did you?"

"Well, yes, I was watchin thu the winder."

Wiggy opened his eyes wide.

"You didn't happen to see the license plate, did you?"

John the bartender grinned from ear to ear.

IN THE NEXT three bookshops on the list Ollie had obtained from Wadsworth and Dodds, the two detectives learned a few things about the publishing business in general and his prospective publisher in particular.

"A sales rep'll make fifty to seventy K a year," the first of the booksellers told them. His name was Oscar Haynes. He asked them to call him Oz. Ollie figured him for a fag because he was wearing a purple shirt.

"To cover the U.S., you've got to hire, what, twenty to thirty reps?" Oz said. "That comes to big bucks. Frankly, I don't see how a small firm like W amp;D can afford that kind of coverage."

"They've only got five reps," Ollie said.

"Even so, that comes to two hundred and fifty K minimum," Oz said. "That's a lot of bread."

In the second bookstore, they learned from a bookseller whose last name was African and unpronounceable-he asked them to call him Ali-that most publishers have a two-season list, and it was therefore not unusual for Jerome Hoskins to make calls here only twice a year. "Unless a house has a big bestseller, where there'll be reorders, a rep has no reason to come by again. W amp;D has never had a bestseller in its history, take it from me."

"Never?"Ollie said, dismayed.

"Not that I know of. You want my opinion, W amp;D publishes books nobody wants to read."

In the third and last of the bookshops, they learned that a firm the size of Wadsworth and Dodds usually employs a distribution company to peddle its books. "A distributor will handle sales for a hundred or so small companies," the bookseller told them. His name was David. He was black, too, and he was wearing a pink shirt. Ollie figured him for another fag. Ollie was beginning to think the entire industry was populated with faggot Negro booksellers. "I'm surprised W amp;D has its own reps, really," David said.

"Did Jerome Hoskins stop by here on the twenty-third?" Carella asked.

"If he did, it had to be after five o'clock. That's when I closed."

"When's the last time you saw him?" Ollie asked.

"September sometime. October. Around then."

"Ever see him with any other W amp;D reps?"

"Nope."

"Man named Randolph Biggs? Ever meet him? From Texas?"

"Nope."

It was time for lunch and all they'd learned about Hoskins was that he hadn't visited any of his bookshop customers on the twenty-third. Which meant he'd been up here for some other reason. Some other reason that had got him shot in the head and dumped in a garbage can.

"Total fucking loss," Ollie said.

"Not entirely," Carella said. "We now know Wadsworth and Dodds is a two-bit publisher that never had a bestseller in its history."

"Who gives a shit?" Ollie said. Actually, he was heartbroken; he'd been hoping his first novel would sell millions of copies.

"But they hired five sales reps, anyway," Carella said. "At fifty to seventy grand a pop. To peddle a list of books nobody wants to read."

"Let's go eat," Ollie said.

SINCE THE ABILITY to fix tickets for traffic violations was essential to Wiggy the Lid's business, one of the people on his payroll was a sergeant in the Motor Vehicles Bureau. He called the man-whose name was Evan Grimes-at one o'clock that afternoon, and asked if he could trace a car for him, and then gave him the license plate number John the bartender had seen through the window of the Starlight on Christmas night. Grimes got back to him ten minutes later. He told him that the car was registered to a company called West Side Limousine, and he gave Wiggy an address and a telephone number he could call. He also advised Wiggy not to call him at work again and hung up abruptly, which was tantamount to a gladiator thumbing his nose at the emperor. Wiggy called him back, at work, an instant later.

"Let me splain the rules of the game, shithead," he said.

Grimes listened.

Carefully.

Then he personally called the city's Taxi and Limousine Commission and asked if a trip sheet had been filed by West Side Limo for a pickup at the Starlight Bar on St. Sebastian and Boyle around oneA.M . on December twenty-sixth. "License plate would've been WU 3200," Grimes said, "I don't have the car number." The guy at T amp;L asked him to wait while he checked, and then came back on the line some five minutes later.

"I think I got what you want," he told Grimes. "But I don't have it as the Starlight Bar. I've got it as 1271 St. Sebastian."

"What time would that have been?"

"Ten past one."

"That'd be it. Who ordered the car?"

"Company named Wadsworth and Dodds. You need an address?"

"Please," Grimes said.

Which is how, within minutes of each other that Thursday afternoon, three people converged on the old landmark building off Headley Square.

One of them was Wiggy Wiggins himself.

The other two were Detectives Steve Carella and Ollie Weeks.

ACTUALLY, THEY RODE UP in the elevator together.

Wiggy knew these two dudes were cops the minute they stepped into the car. He could smell cops from a hundred miles away. Even if he hadn't seen the butt of a nine-millimeter pistol showing under the fat one's jacket, he'd have spotted him for plainclothes. The other one, tall and slender, had Chinese eyes that didn't hide the look of awareness about him, as if he was expecting a crime to erupt around him any minute and was getting ready for it to happen. The fat one was saying that was the worse pastrami sandwich he'd ever had in his life. Half of it was on his jacket, from the looks of it, mustard stains on one of the lapels, ketchup stains on the other. Wiggy looked up at the ceiling.

The elevator operator was a pimply-faced white kid wearing a brown uniform with gold braid. "Fourth floor," he said, as the elevator ground to a halt. He slid open the door and looked over his shoulder at all three of them. The two cops-Wiggy was sure they were-stepped out into a large waiting room with framed posters of books lining the walls. Wiggy hesitated.

"Sir?" the elevator operator said. "This is the fourth floor."

In the next ten seconds, Wiggy did some quick calculations. Two blondes had forced him to give up the money he'd taken from Frank Holt before shooting him dead and stuffing him in a garbage can. Now two cops were here at the place that had hired the limo for the two blondes. Was it possible the cops were also looking for the blondes? If so, how long would it be before they linked Wiggy himself to the murder of Frank Holt?

"I think I made a mistake here," he said to the elevator operator.

"Hi, Charmaine," the fat cop said to the fat broad behind the reception desk.

"Take me back to the lobby," Wiggy said.

The elevator operator shrugged and started to pull the door shut.

The tall, slender cop turned and took a look at Wiggy just as the closing door blocked him from view.

THE MAN WHO INTRODUCED HIMSELF as the publisher here at Wadsworth and Dodds was wearing a brown suit, darker brown shoes, a corn-colored shirt, and a green bow tie sprinkled with gold polka dots. He had snow white hair, and he told Carella his name was Richard Halloway. He remembered Ollie as DetectiveWatts, a misapprehension Ollie quickly corrected.

"It'sWeeks, sir," he said. "Detective OliverWeeks."

"Yes, of course, how stupid of me," Halloway said. "Sit down, gentlemen, please. Some coffee?"

"I could use a cup," Ollie said.

"Detective Carella?"

"Yes, please."

Halloway lifted the receiver on his phone, pressed a button on the base, and asked someone to bring in some coffee. He put down the receiver, turned to the detectives, smiled, and said, "So. What brings you back here, Detective Weeks?"

"We're still trying to figure out what Jerry Hoskins was doing up in Diamondback on December twenty-third," Ollie said. "According to his customers, he wasn't there to see any of them."

"It is peculiar, isn't it?" Halloway said.

"A couple of the booksellers seemed surprised you had sales reps at all," Carella said.

"Oh? Did they?"

"Seemed to think a firm this size might do better with a distributor."

"We've considered that, of course. But then we wouldn't get the personal service we now enjoy."

"Five sales reps altogether," Carella said.

"Yes."

"One of them in Texas, is that right?"

Before Halloway could answer, a knock sounded on the door, and the receptionist came in with a tray on which there was a pot of coffee, three cups and saucers, a pitcher of milk, and a bowl containing an assortment of white, pink, and blue packets.

"Ah, thank you, Charmaine," Halloway said.

Charmaine put the tray down on the coffee table in front of the sofa.

"You wouldn't have any cookies or anything, would you, Charmaine?" Ollie asked.

"Well … uh …"

"See if we have any cookies," Halloway said.

"Yes, sir," she said, and went out.

Ollie was already pouring.

"How do you take this?" he asked.

"Black for me," Halloway said.

"A little milk, one sugar," Carella said.

He was watching Halloway. A good three or four minutes had passed since he'd asked about the sales rep in Texas, more than enough time for Halloway to frame an answer. Halloway seemed to be engrossed in Ollie's short order technique. Ollie was opening a packet of sugar now, pouring it into Carella's cup. He handed it to him, and then carried Halloway's black coffee to the desk. Charmaine came in with a platter of Fig Newtons, just as Ollie sat on the couch beside Carella again.

"Thank you, Charmaine," he said.

Charmaine smiled at him and went out.

"Your rep in Texas," Carella said.

"Yes."

"He lives in Eagle Branch, is that right?"

"Yes, Eagle Branch."

"You listed his name as Randolph Biggs …"

"Yes, that's his name."

"Would this be a side job for him?"

"A side job?"

"A second job. He wouldn't have another job, would he?"

"Not that I know of. Another job? No. Why would he have another job? Working for us keeps him busy enough, I'm sure."

"He wouldn't be a Texas Ranger, would he?"

Halloway burst out laughing.

"Forgive me," he said, "a TexasRanger? I hardly think so."

"Have you ever met him?"

"Of course I've met him."

"Did Jerry Hoskins know him?" Ollie asked.

"Yes, I'm sure they knew each other. I'm sure they were at sales conferences together."

"Twice a year, is that right?" Carella asked.

"Yes. In the spring and the fall."

"Would they have seen each other this year?"

"I feel certain."

"This spring? This fall?"

"Yes, I'm sure."

"Where, Mr. Halloway?"

"Why, here. We had both conferences at the Century Hotel."

"You didn't have your conferences in Texas, did you?"

"No."

"Eagle Branch, Texas?"

"No."

"So they couldn't have met down there, could they?"

"Hardly."

"When's the last time you yourself saw Mr. Biggs?"

"When he was up here in September. For our last sales conference."

"Do you talk to him often?"

"Every now and then."

"Will you be talking to him anytime soon?"

"I would imagine."

"Tell him we were asking for him, will you?"

"I'll be sure to."

There seemed nothing further to say.

Carella was wondering if they had enough on Biggs to justify an arrest warrant and extradition from Texas. Ollie was thinking he would like to ask this little white-haired son of a bitch if he knew that Biggs had introduced Cassandra Ridley to his friend Frank Holt, who'd paid her two hundred thousand dollars to fly dope up from Mexico. He wanted to ask him if maybe Biggs had athird job besides sales rep and Texas Ranger, and could that third job possibly be smuggling drugs? He wanted to suggest that if one of Halloway's sales reps was fucking with drugs down in Mexico then maybeanother of his reps was doing the same thing up in Diamondback, which was maybe what had got him killed. Ollie wanted to scare the shit out of Halloway, was what he wanted. Sometimes, if you scared them hard enough, they jumped the wrong way.

The silence lengthened.

"Well," Carella said, "thanks for your time. We appreciate it."

"Andthe delightful repast," Ollie said, and stuffed some Fig Newtons into his jacket pocket.

They were walking out of the Headley Building, toward the square across the street with its statue of William George Douglas Rae, the gentleman scholar who had captivated the heart of the city with his grace, his charm, and his sparkling wit, when Ollie said, "What do you think? Is the flyboy's word enough for an arrest warrant?"

"What flyboy?"

"Cass Ridley's brother in Germany."

"Depends on what judge we get."

"You think Halloway's in on this?"

"In on what?"

"On whatever the fuck itis."

"If he is, we've got him thinking."

"We shoulda scared him more."

"I think we scared him enough," Carella said.

But Halloway's bad day was just beginning.

THE DETECTIVES DIDN'T NOTICE Walter Wiggins cross the street and head toward the Headley Building the moment he spotted them coming out onto the sidewalk. Nor did they notice the two Hispanic-looking men who crossed the little park in the square and walked toward the building, reaching it at just about the same time Wiggy did. The two men were Francisco Octavio Ortiz and Cesar Villada, and they had just arrived from Mexico this morning.

They got into the elevator with Wiggy, and all three men told the operator they wanted the fourth floor. The two Mexicans gave Wiggy a glance and then turned away. To Wiggy, they looked like spic hit men. He was beginning to regret having come here altogether. First two bulls in the elevator and now two big hitters. "Fourth floor," the elevator operator said, and yanked open the door. Wiggy was looking out at the same reception room he'd seen half an hour ago, same fat white chick behind the desk. The two Latinos stepped out of the elevator ahead of him, no fuckin manners. They walked to the desk, Wiggy right behind them.

"We're looking for a man who works here named Jerome Hoskins," one of them said.

It came out, "We lookin for a man worrs here name Jerr-o Hosk."

"Frank Holt," the other one said.

The last name came out "Hote."

Which was clear enough to Wiggy, who all at once began to think these two Spanish-American gentlemen were not two hitters but were instead two detectives from the Eight-Eight, investigating the murder of Frank Holt. He almost bolted for the elevator.

"I can't understand what you're saying," the receptionist said, squinting.

"What'syour name?" the first man asked.

He made it sound like a threat, even though it came out with a Spanish accent as thick as guacamole.

"Charmaine," she said.

"You know a man name Randoff Beegs?" he said. "In Texas?"

"Eagle Branch," the other one said.

Wiggy was trying to remember if Frank Holt had told him he'd come up from Eagle Branch, Texas. All he could recall was him saying the hundred keys of cocaine had come up from Guenerando, Mexico. He wondered now if Guenerando was anywhere near Eagle Branch. He tried to appear as if he was not listening to the conversation between these two possible dicks and the fat chick behind the desk, but he was standing only three feet behind them, and it was impossible to appear small and insignificant when he weighed two hundred and ten pounds and stood an even six feet tall. He wondered if he should go sit on the bench against the wall, but then he'd miss this fascinating conversation about the man he'd shot in the head. So he stood where he was and pretended not to be eavesdropping. He would have whistled to show how nonchalant he was, but he thought that might only attract attention to him.

"What was that name again?" Charmaine asked. "In Texas?"

"Randolph Biggs," the first man said.

It still came out "Randoff Beegs."

"Oh. Yes," she said, decoding the accent at last. "Let me see if our sales manager is free." She lifted the receiver on her phone, pressed a button in its base, asked, "Whom shall I say is here?" and raised her eyes expectantly.

"Francisco Ortiz," one of the men said.

"Cesar Villada," the other one said.

Wiggy noticed that they did not flash gold badges or identify themselves as detectives. Maybe they were associated with Mr. Holt in some other way. Maybe they were from Eagle Branch, Texas. Maybe they were good old buddies of Frank Holt's, here to inquire how come he was now dead. In which case, Wiggystill felt he ought to get out of here fast.

"Miss Andersen," Charmaine said, "there are two gentlemen here inquiring about Mr. Biggs." She listened, nodded, looked up at the two men again. "May I say what firm you're with?" she asked.

"Villada and Ortiz," Ortiz said.

"Villada and Ortiz," Charmaine said. She listened again. "Is that a bookstore?" she asked.

"Yes, it's a bookstore," Villada said.

"In Eagle Branch," Ortiz said. "Texas," he said. "Villada and Ortiz, Booksellers."

Charmaine relayed the information, listened again, put the phone receiver back on its cradle, rose, and said, "I'll show you in." She turned to Wiggy as she came around the desk, said, "I'll be with you in a moment, sir, won't you have a seat?" and walked off with the two men Wiggy now knew owned a bookstore in Eagle Branch, Texas, which sounded like total bullshit to him.

He went over to the wall on the left of the elevator doors, and sat on the bench there. He looked around the room at the posters hanging on the walls. He'd never heard of any of the books. In a minute or so, Charmaine came back. Instead of going to her desk, though, she walked over to where he was waiting, and sat beside him on the bench.

"So," she said, and smiled. "How can I help you, sir?"

"On Christmas night," Wiggy said, "somebody up here phoned for a limo. I want to talk to whoever that might've been."

"That's very fanciful," Charmaine said, and smiled coquettishly.

"Are you a writer?"

"No, I'm a drug dealer," Wiggy said, and grinned like a shark.

"I'll bet," Charmaine said.

"I run a posse up in Diamondback," he said.

"Oh, sure," she said.

"Who do I talk to about this limo was called for?"

"Ifanyonecalled for a limo, it would've been Douglas Good, our publicity director. But no one was here on Christmas night. We closed on Christmas Eve at three in the afternoon, and didn't open again till the following Tuesday. But I'll see if Mr. Good will talk to you."

"Just tell him Mr.Bad is here," Wiggy said, and grinned again.

KAREN ANDERSEN was telling the two Mexicans that Randolph Biggs did indeed work for them, and so had Jerry Hoskins. But she hadn't seen Randy since their sales conference in September, and Jerry had been the victim of a fatal shooting on Christmas Eve. Was there anythingshe could do for the gentlemen?

The gentlemen explained to her-in halting English which she nonetheless understood-that Jerry Hoskins, who until recently they had known only as Frank Holt, had purchased from them a hundred keys of excellent cocaine …

"I beg your pardon," Karen said, looking astonished.

… for which they had been paid in hundred-dollar bills…

"Gentlemen, I'm sorry," she said, "but …"

"Yes, we're sorry, too," Villada said.

"Because the money was bad," Ortiz said.

DOUGLAS GOOD was a black man who did not appreciate brothers who looked or sounded like Walter Wiggins.

"Two girls named Sheryl and Toni," Wiggins was telling him.

"Yes?" Douglas said.

"West Side Limo," Wiggins said. "The Starlight Bar."

"Mr. Wiggins …"

"Somebody here called a limo from West Side to take two girls named Sheryl and Toni uptown to a bar named the Starlight on St. Sab's and Boyle on Christmas night," Wiggins said. "St. Sebastian's," he explained.

"Somebody from Wadsworth andDodds called a limo …"

"Is the information I have."

"… for two girls named Sheryl and Toni?"

"That's they names. The ladies owe me some money, bro."

Douglas didn't like black men who looked or sounded like Walter Wiggins to call him "bro."

"Mr. Wiggins," he said, "we don't have any women named Sheryl and Toni working for us."

"Two very tall blond ladies," Wiggins said.

"I'm sorry."

"This was a limo from West Side," Wiggins explained again, patiently. "Black Lincoln Town Car with a chauffeur same color as the car. The blonde named Toni was sittin in it, and she picked up me and the blonde named Sheryl outside the Starlight and drove me to my office on Decatur Av, where they relieved me of a certain amount of money, at gun point, on Christmas night."

"No one was here on Christmas night," Douglas said.

"The Taxi and Limousine Commission seems to believe otherwise, bro."

"The Taxi and Limousine Commission made a mistake," Douglas said.

"I don't think so," Wiggins said.

"Let me ask Mr. Halloway to come in," Douglas said.

"Who's Mr. Halloway?"

"Our publisher."

He went to the desk phone, picked up the receiver, and hit Halloway's extension button.

"Halloway."

"Richard, it's Douglas."

"Yes, Douglas."

"I have a man with me who thinks we sent a limo up to Diamondback on Christmas night. His name is Walter Wiggins."

"He should've left well enough alone," Halloway said.

"I thought you might like to meet him."

"I'll be right in," Halloway said.

Douglas put the receiver back on the cradle, smiled at Wiggins, and said, "He's on his way."

KAREN ANDERSEN was still trying to bluff her way out of this.

"Bad money?" she said.

"Counterfeit," Ortiz said. "We wass paid with queer money."

"One million seven hun'red t'ousan dollars of it," Villada said.

Karen smiled.

"We don't think it's so funny, Miss," Ortiz said.

"In any case," Karen said, "Jerry Hoskins is dead."

"In any case," Ortiz said, "so is Randolph Biggs."

Karen looked at them.

"He met with an electrical accident in Piedras Rosas, Mexico," Villada said, and nodded.

"We want our money," Ortiz said.

"Gentlemen, I have absolutelyno idea what you're talking about," Karen said.

"We are talking about one million seven hun'red t'ousan dollars two people who worr for you company focked us out of in Mehico," Villada said.

Or something like that.

Which Karen Andersen all at once understood clearly because Ortiz suddenly seemed to be holding a gun in his hand.

DOUGLAS GOOD didn't want to say anything further to Mr. Wiggins here until Halloway joined them. Wiggins had obviously done a little research, first locating West Side's name and next tracing them back to the offices here. Douglas figured the man was here to get his money back, which wasn't his money at all since he should have paid it to Jerry Hoskins after the cocaine had been turned over. Wiggins's oversight had resulted in a visit from "The Weird Sisters," as Sheryl and Toni were affectionately called even though they were not related. W amp;D's oversight-or rather Halloway's-had been in not dispatching the man the moment the money was in their hands. Halloway had ruled out such an action, partially because he had no real evidence that Wiggins had been responsible for the murder of one of their best people, secondly because black-white relationships were touchy enough in Diamondback without giving the drug people up there a reason to distrust future commerce with Whitey. In any case, Wiggins should have left well enough alone. Instead, here he was, the fool.

"You know why I'm here, don't you?" Wiggins asked, and smiled wisely.

"I have no idea," Douglas said.

"No, huh? Then why'd you ax your boss to come in?"

Douglas had called Halloway because he was the only person sanctioned to order Wiggins's death-as he should have done on Christmas night. If Wiggins had anything incriminating to say, he wanted Halloway to hear it first hand. So that maybe he'd give the goddamn correct orders this time around.

"I'm here for my money," Wiggins said.

Big surprise, Douglas thought, and Halloway walked in without knocking. "Hello, Mr. Wiggins," he said, extending his hand. "Nice to meet you." The men shook hands. Their eyes met. Douglas figured Wiggins should have known in that single meeting of eyes that he was a dead man. But maybe he was stupid.

"Are you authorized to make a payout?" he asked Halloway. "Cause what I need fum you is one million nine hundred thousand dollars in cash."

IN ALL HER YEARS with W amp;D, Karen Andersen had never before looked down the barrel of a gun or into the eyes of a person who would have no qualms about pulling the trigger of that gun. She wondered briefly what Halloway would do in similar circumstances. She had seen him perform admirably in comparably challenging situations, but those had been when they were in bed together, and always during the window of opportunity Viagra presented. She was surprised now to discover that she was not at all frightened. Calmly, coolly, she said, "Please don't force me to call the police."

Villada laughed.

Karen reached for the phone on her desk, intending not to call the police but to summon Halloway for help. Ortiz slammed the butt of his revolver down on her hand. She pulled it back, winced, held the throbbing fingers to her breasts. Her lip was quivering, but she did not scream.

"We'll be back," Ortiz said. There was blood on the butt of the pistol. He yanked a tissue from the box on Karen's desk, wiped the butt clean, and tossed the stained tissue into an ashtray. "Get the fockin money," he said."Real money this time,comprende?"

"Or we'll kill every fockin one of you who works here," Villada said.

Not if we kill you first, Karen thought.

"I HAVE NO IDEA what money you mean," Halloway said.

"The money your two blond ladies took from me," Wiggins said.

"I don't know which ladies you mean."

"Sheryl and Toni. With the long legs and the AK-47."

"We have no such employees. Mr. Wiggins," Halloway said, slowly and distinctly, "you are making a terrible mistake here."

Their eyes met again.

This time Wiggins read the meaning in them.

Which was perhaps why he drew a pistol from a holster under his jacket. He pointed the gun first at Halloway, and then swung it around toward Douglas, as if to emphasize that his enmity was large enough to include both of them. The gun looked like a snub-nosed .38. Douglas didn't think the man was foolish enough to kill them here in their own offices, especially since he was here to negotiate the return of money he felt was his. But who knew with these street thugs?

Halloway had been in hairier situations than this one. Not for nothing was he in charge here. He looked at the gun in Wiggins's hand, and then raised his eyes to meet Wiggins's again. His eyes seemed to sayThis is only about money, friend. Do you really want to die for it? But would Wiggins have pulled a gun on them if he didn't realize he was already a dead man?

"You don't want to do this," Halloway said.

"I've done it before," Wiggins said.

"Not with the consequences this would bring."

Douglas knew this was bullshit. If Wiggins had in fact killed Jerry Hoskins, there had been no consequences at all. Wiggins must have realized this, too. He had blown one of them away, and the only thing that had happened was The Wierd Sisters coming to call. Douglas wondered if, in retrospect, Halloway was thinking he should have given the termination order back then on Christmas night. A bit late now, though.

"Tell you what," Wiggins said. "I realize you don't have that kind of money juss layin aroun in cash. But go get it, okay? I'll come see you sometime soon," he said, and backed away toward the door.

Sometime soon, you'll be dead, Douglas thought. Bro.

Wiggins stepped out into the hallway.

THE THREE MEN reached the elevator at about the same time. One of the two Mexicans pressed the bell button set in the wall.

"How'd it go?" Wiggy asked them.

"Fockin people still owe us money," Ortiz said.

Which was how a rather strange triumvirate was founded.

IT WAS STILL THURSDAY on what was shaping up to be the longest day of the year, never mind what the almanac said. Sitting at his desk at a quarter to five that evening, the squadroom almost deserted, Carella tried to make some sense of this bewildering case that seemed to focus entirely on money, real or largely imagined. Theimaginedcash appeared to originate in Iran, where billions of dollars in so-called super-bills were being printed on intaglio presses with plates provided by the good old U.S. of A., talk about payback time.

Carella knew some things for certain. The rest he could only guess at. He knew that Cass Ridley had made four trips to Mexico with a certain amount of money she'd exchanged for some kind of controlled substance, and had been paid $200,000 in cash for her efforts. This money was real, if the lady at First Federal could be trusted, whatever her name was. But Cass Ridley had also been given a ten-grand tip by the pair of Mexicans involved in the transaction, whoeverthey were, andthat money was fake. Poor Will Struthers, trying to spend the cash he'd pilfered, had twice been nailed passing phony hundreds. According to the lady at First Federal, Antonia Lugosi or something, twenty billion dollars in counterfeit hundreds were floating around out there, enough bogus bills to concern the Treasury Department, who had relieved Struthers of the phonies he'd stolen and given him real cash in exchange-but that was only a guess. Belandres! AntoniaBelandres! Hence the Lugosi association, forBela Lugosi, the best Dracula there ever was, the mind worked in curious ways its wonders to reveal.

Carella wished with all his heart that this case would reveal itself as clearly to him as Lucy's throat had been revealed to the count all those years back when Carella first saw the black-and-white film on television, the count's head descending, his lips drawing back, the fangs bared, Carella had almost wet his pants.

The money in Jerry Hoskins' wallet was real, too. No question about that, the Federal Reserve had run it through their machines, the hundred-dollar bills were genuine. But Jerry Hoskins had worked for Wadsworth and Dodds, and the man who'd set up the flying arrangement with Cass Ridley also worked for W amp;D, though there seemed to be some confusion about whether or not Randolph Biggs wasalso a Texas Ranger, which Carella sincerely doubted-but that, too, was a guess.

Lots of guesswork here, no hard facts.

He wondered what time it was in Texas.

He looked up at the wall clock, opened the bottom drawer of his desk, took out his massive directory of law enforcement agencies, found a listing for the Texas Department of Public Safety headquarters in Austin, figured somebody would be there no matterwhat time it was, and dialed the number. He told the woman who answered the phone what he was looking for, was connected to a sergeant named Dewayne Ralston, repeated everything again, and was asked to "Hang on, Detective." He hung on. Some five minutes later, Ralston came back onto the line.

"Nobody in the Ranger Division named Randolph Biggs," he said. "You landed yourself an imposter, Detective."

"While I've got you on the line," Carella said, "could you check for a criminal record?"

"Don't go away," Ralston said.

Carella didn't go away. Across the room, he could see Kling at his desk, hunched over a computer. Cotton Hawes was just coming through the railing that divided the squadroom from the corridor outside. Telephones were ringing. In one corner of the room, the squad's meager Christmas tree blinked holiday cheer to the street outside. From the Clerical Office down the hall, he could smell the aroma of coffee brewing. This was a very familiar place to him. He felt suddenly sad and could not have explained why.

"You still there?" Ralston asked.

"Still here."

"No record on a Randolph Biggs, B-I-G-G-S. But if this is the same dude, he turned up dead in Piedras Rosas two days ago. Found him floating in a tub of water with a plugged-in cattle prod. Death by electrocution. Apparent suicide."

"That makes two," Carella said.

"Pardon?"

"One of his colleagues was murdered up here on Christmas Eve."

"Looks like you got your hands full," Ralston said.

"Looks that way," Carella said.

THE PHONE ON Ollie Weeks's desk rang some five minutes later.

"Weeks," he said.

"You handlin that murder happened last week?" a man's voice asked.

"Which murder would that be?" Ollie asked.

Up here in the Eight-Eight, there were 10,247 murders every day of the year.

"The newspaper said he was Jerry Hoskins," the man said. "To me, he was Frank Holt."

"Who's this?" Ollie asked at once.

"Nev' mine who's this," the man said. "I know who killed him."

Ollie pulled a pad into place.

"Tell me your name," he said.

"Is they a reward?"

"Maybe. I can't deal with you unless you tell me your name."

"Tito Gomez," the man said.

"Can you come up here in half an hour?"

"I rather meet you someplace else."

"Sure. Where?"

"The Eight' Street footpath into Grover. Fourth bench in."

Ollie looked up at the wall clock.

"Make it a quarter to six," he said.

"See you," Tito said, and hung up.

Ollie hit the files.

IT DID NOT TAKE Wiggy and the two Mexicans long to discover that what they had in common was a hundred keys of cocaine. It also appeared they had each been stiffed by a company that purported to publish books, but which instead seemed to be involved in the transport and sale of controlled substances. They did not yet know they were fucking with something much bigger here. For the time being their shared grievances were enough to provide motivation for what they planned to do sometime tomorrow.

They were discussing all this over beers in a bar on Grover Avenue, not too distant from Grover Park, where Ollie and Gomez would be meeting twenty minutes from now. In many ways, the big bad city was just a small town.

"I can't get over these people payin you queer money for your goods," Wiggy was saying. "Which by the way was very high quality shit, I have to tell you."

"Gracias, senor,"Ortiz said, pride of product glowing in his eyes.

"Which is a shame," Wiggy said, "them stiffing you that way. But I have to tell you the moneyI paidthemwas hundred-percent genuine American currency, and I want it back cause they sent two blondes to take it away from me."

This was not entirely true. Wiggy had never paid a single penny to Hoskins or Holt or whoever he was. He had shot him in the head instead.

"They stoleyour money, too?" Ortiz asked incredulously.

"For damn sure."

Neither was this entirely true. They had, in fact, taken the money from his safe, but this was not stealing from him. This was collecting money rightfully owed them for the hundred keys of cocaine they'd delivered as promised.

"So they are stealing fromall of us," Villada said.

"Basic thieves is what they are," Wiggy said.

"Like us," Ortiz said, and all three men burst out laughing.

"So what we're gonna do tomorrow …" Wiggy said.

AT FIRST, it looked as if there was nothing on him but a marijuana violation two years ago. But at the time of the bust, Tito Gomez-whose street name was Tigo-had worked for a place named King Auto Body, and this rang a bell with Ollie. So he cross-checked the files and lo and behold, there it was. A massive conspiracy arrest some six months back. Ollie went to his desk and phoned Carella.

"Steve," he said, "I got a call from somebody says he knows who killed Hoskins. I'm meeting him in Grover Park ten minutes from now. You want to join us?"

"Where in Grover?" Carella asked.

"WE GO UP THERE TOGETHER," Wiggy said. "We tell them give us the fuckin money you owe us or you all dead men. Your million-seven. My million-nine."

Nobody owed Wiggy anything. But he already believed himself the true owner of the million-nine the blondes had taken in rightful payment for the drugs he'd purchased.

"Fockin crooks," Villada said, shaking his head.

Ortiz was shaking his head, too. But only because he didn't like the plan. His reasoning was simple. Threats and warnings were one thing. Reality was another. In his broken English, he explained that between yesterday and today, nobody up at Wadsworth and Dodds could have gathered together the million-seven his partner had demanded, much less the million-nine their new associate was seeking. That came to a total of three-million-six …

"Which ees a ho lot of money," Ortiz explained.

Wiggy was thinking there was once a time in his life when two dollars for a water pistol seemed like a whole lot of money.

TITO GOMEZ was sitting on the fourth bench into the park when Carella got there at ten minutes to six that Thursday night. The two seemed to be hitting it off extremely well. Gomez was smoking a cigarette and listening to Ollie intently as he concluded what was apparently a joke because Gomez burst out laughing just as Carella approached.

"Hey, Steve!" Ollie called. "You know the one about the guy who puts a condom on his piano?"

"Yes," Carella said.

He sat on the bench beside Gomez, the two detectives flanking him like mismatched bookends. "This the man you were telling me about?" he asked Ollie.

"This is him," Ollie said. "Tito Gomez. Otherwise known as Tigo. Meet Detective Carella, Tigo."

Tigo nodded.

"So I understand you want to talk to us about something," Carella said.

"Yeah, but I ain't got all day here. You got any more detectives you need to call?" he asked Ollie.

"No, this is all of us," Ollie said affably. "He says he knows who killed Jerry Hoskins, ain't that interesting? He wants to know if there's a reward."

"We can maybe come up with a little something," Carella said.

"What do you meanmaybe?"

"We can talk to the commissioner, see what this case means to him."

He was thinking with counterfeit super-bills somehow involved, the commissioner might be able to come up with a little something.

"What I have in mind is fifty thousand dollars," Tigo said.

"That's a lot of money, Tigo."

"But that's what makes the world go round, no?" Tigo said, and grinned. "Money, money, money."

"Well, that all depends on the value of the information you have for us, eh,amigo?" Ollie said, still affably.

Tigo didn't like to be called"amigo." His father was from Puerto Rico, true enough, but his mother was black, and he was proud of his heritage on her side of the family. As pleasantly as he could-these were, after all, cops he was dealing with-he said, "I don't speak Spanish,amigo," which was a lie, but which seemed to make his point.

"Oh, sorry," Ollie said, "I didn't realize. So tell us why you wanted to see us."

"There was this buy on Decatur Av?" Tigo said, making it sound like a question. "Guy runs a posse from a crib on the whole second floor there, knocked out the walls of three apartments? He brings up dope from Mexico, Colombia, Peru, sells it in ten-kilo lots for forty, fifty a pop, whatever the traffic will bear. I've been workin for him almost two years now, you'd think he'd start talkin bout makin me a partner, but no. He's still got me on salary …"

So that's why he's ratting him out, Carella thought.

"… treats me like a fuckin courier, don't get me started. I used to make more money driving the truck. I used to drive a tow truck for this auto body shop on Mason."

"What's this guy's name?" Carella said.

"First tell me how much the commissioner's gonna okay on this," Tigo said.

"Well, we haven't talked to him yet," Ollie said affably. "We have togo to him with something, you see. We tell him there's this guymaybehas information, he'll say go take a walk, fellas."

"Can you at least tell us when this buy went down?" Carella asked.

"Sure," Tigo said. "Four, five days ago."

"When exactly?"

"What's today?"

"The twenty-eighth."

"So it must've been … let me see." He began counting back on his fingers. "Last Saturday night? When was that? Christmas Eve?"

"No, the twenty-third," Ollie said.

"So that's when it was. Like I said. Four, five days ago."

"Where?" Carella asked.

"I told you, this crib on Decatur. It's these three apartments, this person we're talking about knocked out the …"

"What's the address?"

"1280 Decatur."

"Were you there when the buy went down?"

"Yeah. This dude was waitin in the front room while we tested the shit. He was supposed to get a mill-nine for the hundred keys."

"What was his name?"

"Frank Holt. But his picture in the paper said he was Jerry Hoskins. The same guy, right?"

"The same guy," Carella said. "Tell us what happened."

"This is where the bus stops," Tigo said. "Go talk to the commissioner."

"Suppose we go to 1280 Decatur instead, talk to whoever's got the second floor there, tell him his trusted employee just ratted him out?" Carella said.

"Now, now, Steve," Ollie said affably. "The man hasn't ratted out anyone yet, have you, Tigo?"

"Not till I see the green."

"You just told us you participated in a drug deal, do you realize that?" Carella said. He was thinking this was an odd reversal of roles, him playing Bad Cop to Ollie's Good.

"Gee, did I?" Tigo said. "Are you wired, Detective? If not, who's your witness? Another cop? A bullshit bust, and you know it."

"I can tell you right now, nobody's giving you fifty thousand dollars so we can nail a two-bit drug dealer in Diamondback."

"Even if it's murder?"

"Even if he raped the Mayor's mother."

"How muchare you prepared to give me?"

Sounding like a fucking lawyer all at once.

"You tell us you witnessed a murder, you give us all the details, you agree to testify at trial, we can maybe scrape up two or three …"

"Goodbye, gentlemen," Tigo said, and got off the bench.

"Sit down, punk," Ollie said.

Tigo looked surprised.

"Isaidsit the fuckdown."

Tigo sat.

"Let me tell you what you're gonna do for us," Ollie said.

"OKAY, I got a better idea," Wiggy was telling the two Mexicans. "We go in heavy, all three of us. Semi-automatics under our overcoats. We hold the mother-fuckers hostage."

Villada looked at Ortiz.

"We go in early tomorrow morning. They got the whole fourth floor, ain't nobody but us gonna know we're in there holdin guns on them. We stay there till they come up with the cash."

"The banks will be closed till Tuesday," Ortiz said.

"It's the long weekend," Villada said, nodding agreement.

"Man, they stole a mill-nine from me, you think they put that in abank?These people are thieves, man. They got that moneystashed someplace, is what. All we got to do is ask that white-haired fuck to take us to wherever it is."

"What aboutour money?" Ortiz asked.

"We'll get that, too, don't worry," Wiggy said. "One thing I know for sure, you stick a piece in some dude's face, he's gonna give you every fuckin nickel he has."

Actually, Wiggy didn't give a rat's ass about their money. Far as he was concerned, they could eat tacos and beans the rest of they fuckin lives. All he needed them for was the extra muscle they brought to the gig. He was already figuring they would be the ones who stayed behind to watch the others while him and Halloway went to retrieve the money that was rightfully his.

Ortiz was ahead of him.

"Who goes for the money?" he asked.

"Halloway. Their boss."

"Who goeswith him?"

"Any one of us," Wiggy said.

"I think it should be either me or Cesar," Ortiz said.

"Sure, whoever," Wiggy said, and grinned.

TIGO SAID NO, he would not go in with no wire on him.

Ollie said either he wore the wire or they would bust his ass for the Fire Lane Scam.

"What the fuck is the Fire Lane Scam?" Tigo asked.

"You drove the tow truck, remember?" Ollie said affably. In fact, he was actually smiling.

"What's the Fire Lane Scam?" Carella asked.

"What I done when Tigo called me," Ollie said, "was see what we had on him in the files. Aside from a bullshit marijuana violation two years ago …"

"I was acquitted."

"I told you. Bullshit. In fact, I was just about to tell Detective Carella here that there didn't seem to be anything else on you. So I figured you were clean."

"I am."

"Except for participating in a drug deal last Saturday night," Carella said.

"You got only my word for that," Tigo said, making a joke. In fact, he grinned at them as if expecting them to laugh.

Ollie didn't laugh, but he grinned back.

"Your record said you were employed by King Auto Body when you were busted for the weed," Ollie said. "So I cross-checked and found out why that name sounded familiar. I found a big, big arrest six months ago, Tigo. The Fire Lane Scam. For which Joey King-no relation to Larry-is doing a five-and-dime at Castleview. You know what I'm talking about now, Tigo?"

"No, I don't."

"You were driving a tow truck for him, right?"

"That's right. I went out on calls for dead batteries, flat tires, lockouts, like that."

"You also went out on calls for Berry Appliances, who were in on the scam with Joey."

"I never heard of anything called Berry Appliances."

"George and Michael Berry," Ollie said. "They used to sell washing machines, refrigerators, stoves, all that shit. A shop on Twelfth and Moore, you remember it?"

"No."

"Had a little alley running alongside the shop, remember the alley?"

"No."

"What it was," Ollie explained to Carella, "George Berry went to the Fire Department and greased a few palms-they all went down together, by the way. Joey King, George and his brother, and the two Fire Department assholes who signed papers declaring the alley a so-called fire lane. They're all exercising in the yard upstate."

"Ho-hum," Tigo said.

"Yeah, ho-hum," Ollie said, and turned back to Carella again.

"What it was, George and his brother posted these signs on the walls of the alley saying it was a fire lane, and you couldn't park there, or your car would be towed if you did. Guy comes back, finds his car towed, he reads the small print on the bottom of the sign, it tells him he can recover the car at King's Auto Body Shop on Mason Avenue. What Tigo here did was make a sweep of the alley every few hours, tow any car parked there. There were always five, six cars in the alley, nobody paid any attention to the signs. Tigo picked up the cars, towed them over to King's. When the owner came to collect his car, Joey told him it would cost a hundred bucks to release it. You towed maybe twenty cars a night, didn't you, Tigo? People in this city have no fuckin respect for the law. 'No Parking' signs all over the alley, 'Fire Lane,' they just ignored them. A hundred bucks a car, that's two thousand bucks these guys were splitting every night of the week. That's like fourteen grand a week, how much do we make, Steve?"

"Not that much," Carella said.

"Not even in a good week," Ollie said. "I keep tellin you, we're in the wrong business."

"Where'd you get all this shit?" Tigo said, shaking his head as if in disbelief.

"It's all in the record. You were driving the tow truck. But you told the D.A. you were just a salaried employee who didn't know anything wrong was going on, and they believed you. You were just a kid, they had bigger fish to fry. But guess what Joey King told me?"

"You talked toJoey?"

"Yeah, gee, I did. I figured I might need insurance if you got all pissy on me. So I called Castleview just before I left the squadroom, had a nice little chat with him. He told me they were paying you twenty bucks for every car you brought in. Three, four hundred bucks a night. Something like two grand a week. You were in on the deal, Tigo."

"I was a salaried employee. Go look at my social security records."

"Salaryplus,Tigo. You were part of a conspiracy. You should be up there at Castleview with them."

"But I ain't," Tigo said.

"Ah, but you could be. Joey seems to think early parole sounds very nice indeed."

Tigo looked at him.

"He's ready to rat you out, friend, ah yes."

"You're full of shit," Tigo said.

"Well, maybe so," Ollie said affably.

"Tigo," Carella said, "I think he's got us."