The Big Bad City

14.

The only time the man was alone was when he was coming out his house.

Early in the morning, walking over to his garage, getting in his car to drive to work. That was the time to do it. Cause any other time he was with either family or other cops and Sonny had no quarrel with anyone cept him.

Fact of the matter, he had no quarrel with him, either. Man hadn't done nothin to him. What this was, it was insurance plain and simple.

You got the man today so he wun't haunt you the rest of your life, that's what this was all about. Nobody ast the man's father to start a ruckus in his shop, cousin Sonny to shoot in self defense. Life was that way, man. Shit happened.

So what this was going to be tomorrow morning was a clearing of the books. Like consolidating your debts when you had too much on too many credit cards. You borrowed from one source, you wiped out all the other debts. You had just one single debt then, you didn't have to worry all the time about the collector comin round. Carella was the collector. You either worried about the collector or you set your worries aside. Tomorrow morning, Sonny'd be able to breathe free again, no more collector on his ass all the time.

He'd driven past the house three times today alone. This was his fourth and final pass. Last time around, some red-haired lady wearing eyeglasses came out carrying something over to the garage. On the path between the house and the garage was where Sonny planned to do it. Lay in wait for the man, surprise him. Redhead had glanced at the Honda as he drove on by, not the kind of hard look the big black cop had give him yesterday.

Just a curious glance, but it was enough to make Sonny think maybe she'd spotted the car doing its dry runs and it was time to quit. This time he drove past slow but not too conspicuous. Man went to work at the crack of dawn, half the neighborhood was still asleep at that hour.

Sound of the Desert Eagle be like a cannon going off in the stillness, this was one powerful pistol he had here. Man comes out his house, starts walkin to his car, gets shot in the face. In, out, been nice to know you.

The house looked like the one in that movie Psycho, where the guy was runnin aroun in drag stabbin people. Hard to believe a cop livin in a place looked like it was from olden times. Once, drivin by at night when he was still thinkin maybe the best time to do it was after dark, he could see inside to where a floor lamp was standin, looked like the shade was all different-colored jewels. Touched his heart cause he seemed to recall a similar lamp when he was comin along, maybe in his grandma's house, though he couldn't imagine her possessing anything looked like it was jewels. Took him back, though. To someplace he couldn't hardly remember. Touched him.

Do it in broad daylight, shoot the man in the face and run off to where he'd have parked the car. What he planned on doing was giving the Honda back to Coral tonight, thank her proper in bed with a yard and a half.

Then go out around midnight, boost a car on the street, use the stolen vehicle for the thing tomorrow. He planned to wake up at five in the morning, drive up here to Riverhead, be in position by six-thirty latest, case the man decided to get to work even earlier than any human being had cause to.

Red-haired lady coming out of the house again, busy, busy, busy.

Carrying garbage to the bins on the side of the house this time.

Figured her to be in her sixties, maybe she was a maid, did cops have maids? In which case, how come she wun't black, huh? Or maybe a nanny. Did he have small kids? Woman hesitated on her way, gave the Honda another look as it went by. Sonny didn't speed up, didn't do nothin to indicate he was in any way troubled by the redhead's scrutiny. She was lookin at a car'd be ancient history by sundown tonight. Wearin glasses, probly squintin through 'em, trying catch the numbers on the license plate. So long, lady, been nice to know you.

Tomorrow mornin, Carella be history, too.

Sal Roselli was giving a piano lesson when they arrived at his house that Tuesday morning. His wife said he'd be finished at eleven o'clock, would they like to wait inside for him, where it was cool? They elected to sit out back in the sun. From inside the house, they could hear some kid murdering something that used to be classical before he got his hands on it. Or she. From the pounding, Carella automatically assumed it was a boy in there venting his fury. Except for the cacophony, the neighborhood was still. Roselli's two little girls were in the pool, their mother watching them from the kitchen window. The detectives almost dozed.

Roselli was wearing black jeans, loafers without socks, and a white, long-sleeved shirt with the cuffs rolled up when he joined them at a few minutes past the hour. He appeared sleepy-eyed, though it was already late in the morning. He explained to the detectives that he'd been out jamming late the night before, sitting in with a bunch of guys he knew who had a steady gig down in The Quarter.

"It's tough to find steady work these days," he said. "I give lessons to supplement my income, got to pay the mortgage, hm? There's only one piano player in a band, you know. In a marching band, you can have seventy-six trombones, and a hundred and twelve cornets, but no piano at all. A rock group? Sometimes a keyboard, but just as often not. A symphony orchestra? One piano, but only sometimes.”

"I used to play clarinet when I was a kid," Brown said.

Roselli gave him the disinterested nod of a professional who didn't give a damn about the music lessons amateurs took when they were kids.

"So what brings you out here again?" he asked, and took a seat facing them. The detectives were looking into the sun. They shifted their chairs.

"Boyle's Landing," Carella said.

"September first, four years ago," Brown said. "Payday.”

"Charlie Custer's office.”

"What happened in there, Sal?”

First-name basis now, no more polite bullshit. You iled to us, Sal, so you're not Mr. Roselli anymore. You are Sal, and we are cops, Sal. "In where?" Roselli said. "Custer's office.”

"When you and Katie went up there?”

"It was Davey who went up there," Roselli said. "Not according to him.”

“Then he's lying.”

"Not according to Katie, either." Roselli looked at them. "Katie's dead," he said.

"She wasn't dead when she gave her statement to Detective Morris Bloom in Calusa, Florida, four years ago.”

"How'd you ... ?" Roselli started, and then closed his mouth.

"Sal?”

He looked away.

"Want to tell us what happened that night, Sal?”

He turned back sharply.

"What happened was Custer got drunk and fell in the river," he said.

"That's what happened. Just what I told you before.”

"Only after a second visit, Sal.”

"You neglected to mention the drowning the first time around.”

"You said you didn't think it was important?”

“How do you feel about being in Custer's office?”

“Alone with him and Katie?”

“How do you feel about that?”

“Do you think that's important?”

"All right, look, I didn't want to get involved.”

"Involved?”

"You were here investigating Katie's murder, I didn'.t want to get involved, that's all.”

"We're still investigating her murder, Sal.”

“And I still don't want to get involved.”

“Why'd you lie to us, Sal?”

"Because I had nothing to do with it.”

“With what?”

“Charlie drowning.”

"But he drowned after you left, didn't he?" Silence. "Sal?”

"He drowned after the band was long gone, isn't that what you told us?”

"Yes.”

"So how could you have had anything to do with it?”

“I didn't.”

"Then why'd you lie to us about being in his office?”

Silence.

"Sal?”

"Why'd you ... ?”

"Okay, I was trying to protect Katie, okay?”

“But Katie's dead.”

"You told me she was a nun.”

Ies.

"Okay, I didn't want it to reflect upon her.”

“Didn't want what to reflect upon her?”

“Didn't want it to tarnish her memory.”

“What do you mean?”

“Charlie drowning.”

"Would somehow tarnish her memory?”

"If it got out.”

"If what got out?”

"If I told you.”

"Told us what?”

"What happened?”

"What did happen, Sal?”

Silence.

"Sal?”

"Tell us, Sal.”

"What happened, Sal?”

"She shoved him over the railing," Roselli said.

"I can't tell you what a great job I think you kids did," Charlie says.

He's been drinking too much and his speech is slurred. A bottle of beer in one hand, he staggers as he walks to the safe, catches his balance, says, "Oops," gives a gurgly little giggle and then grins in broad apology and winks at Katie. He raises the bottle in a belated toast. "Here's to next time," he says, and tilts the bottle to his mouth and drinks again. Sal is hoping he won't pass out before he opens the safe and pays them.

Charlie is wearing a wrinkled white linen suit, he looks as if he's auditioning for the role of Big Daddy in Sweet Bird. Chomping on a cigar, belching around it, he takes it out of his mouth only to swig more beer. He finally sets the bottle down on top of the safe. This is a big old Mosler that sits on the floor, he has some difficulty kneeling down in front of it, first, because he's so fat, and next because he's so drunk. Sal is really beginning to worry now that they'll have to wait till morning to get paid. How's Charlie even going to remember the combination, much less see the numbers on the dial? It is unbearably hot here in the office. The window air conditioner is functioning, but only minimally, and Charlie has thrown open the French doors to the deck, hoping to catch a stray breeze. Outside, there is the sound of insects and wilder things, the cries of animals in the deep dark. Only the alligators are silent.

Katie is slumped in one of the big black leather chairs, exhausted and sweaty, her hair hanging limp, her T-shirt clinging to her. She has her legs stretched out, the mini riding high on her thighs, she looks sort of like a thirteen-year-old who's just come home from the junior high hop. Charlie is kneeling in front of the safe, having difficulty with his balance, reciting the combination out loud as if there's no one in the room with him, three to the right, stop on twenty. Two to the left, past twenty, stop on seven. One to the right, stop on thirty-four but the safe won't open. So he goes through the same routine once again, and then another time after that until he finally hits the right numbers, and boldly yanks down the handle, and flamboyantly flings open the safe door. All grand movements.

Everything big and baroque. Like drunken Charlie himself.

The night's proceeds are in there. Charlie's crowd is composed largely of teenagers, and they pay in cash. He starts counting out the bills, has to count them three times, too, before he gets it right. He puts the rest of the money back in the safe, hurls the door shut, gives the dial a dramatic twist. He's now holding a wad of hundred-dollar bills in his left hand. With his right hand, he braces himself against the safe and pushes himself to his feet. gonna be, He turns to Katie where she's sprawled half-asleep you don't in the black leather chair.

Sal "Now, young missy," he says, and staggers over to boy her, "You want this money?" thinks Katie opens her eyes. others, "Would you like to get paid?" he says.

Charlie "That's why we're here, boss," Sal says, smiling, he is and moves to where Charlie's standing in front of the chair, the way "You want this money?" Charlie asks again, and There shakes the bills in Katie's face. face "Stop doing that," she says sleepily, and flaps her very hands on the air in front of her, trying to wave the band, money away. matter.

"Sweet missy, you want this money, here' what the you got to do," he says, and shoves the wad of bills do into the right-hand pocket of his jacket. They bulge there like a sudden tumor. He unzips his fly. And all at once he,s holding himself in his hand.

"Come on, Charlie, put that away," Sal says. For some reason he is still smiling. He cannot imagine , why he is still smiling, unless it's because the situation is so absurd.

"What you want me to put away, boy?" Charlie says. "The money or my pecker?”

"Come on, Charlie.”

Sal is no longer smiling. ' "You want me to put this money back in the safe? Or you want me to put my pecker in Katie's mouth?”

"Come on, Charlie.”

gonna be, boy. Either the little girl sucks my dick, or you don't get paid.”

Sal doesn't know how to deal with this. He's a city boy unused to the ways of wild land crackers. He thinks for a moment he'll run outside and get the others, all for one and one for all, and all that. But Charlie has grabbed Katie's chin in his hand now, and he is moving in on her with a drunk's bullheaded determination, waving his bulging purple cock at her the way he waved the wad of money only minutes ago.

There is a look of such unutterable horror on Katie's face that Sal knows this is going to be resolved in the very next instant without any help from the rest of the band, without any help from him, either, for that matter. City-boy coward that he is, he stands frozen to the spot, watching, incapable of movement, unable to do anything but repeat, "Come on, Charlie.”

Katie comes out of the chair like a lioness.

She shoves at Charlie's chest, and he staggers backward toward the open French doors.

"Hey," he says, "I was only ...”

But she is on him again, shoving out at him again, a hundred and ten pounds of sweaty blind fury pushing the fat drunken fool out onto the deck, and then lunging at him one last time, her fingers widespread on his chest, a hiss escaping her lips as she pushes him over the railing.

There is a splash when he hits the water, and then, instantly, a terrible thrashing that tells them the alligators are getting to him even before he surfaces.

Katie is breathing very hard. The sweaty T-shirt clings to her, Sal can see her nipples puckering it in "So excitement, she has just killed a man.

Sonny "The money," Katie says.

"I "Katie, you killed him.”

He "The money. It was in his pocket." was "Fuck the money," Sal says.

"Do you remember the combination?”

"No. Let's get out of here. Jesus, Katie, you killed lifting him.”

"The combination. Do you remember it?”

On the river below, there is an appalling stillness.

"He Three to the right, stop on twenty, two to the left, “ past twenty, stop on seven. One to the right, stop on thirty-four, killed He recites the numbers aloud to her as she slowly be turns the dial to the right, and to the left, and then to the right again. She opens the door. From the wad of out money in the safe, she peels off the money due them, him: and returns the rest to the safe, and closes the door, “ and twists the dial to lock it again. Sal watches as she “

wipes the dial and the handle clean. She looks around one last time, and then they leave the office. , "In the van,". Sal says, "Got the bread, let's go," and Katie pulls her T-shirt away from her body, the encouraging the cool flow from the air conditioner.

Rigoberto Mendez was setting up his bar at the Siesta when Ollie Weeks caught up with him at one o'clock that afternoon. Weeks ordered himself a beer, for which he did not offer to pay. Sitting at the bar, Ollie slurped noisily and happily from the Heineken bottle, watching Mendez as he polished glasses and checked whiskey levels.

"'o tell me," Llllle sulu, '***-"*-" '-"-"-'" o-., Sonny Cole live?”

"I got no idea," Mendez said.

He was one of these Dominicans who thought he was handsome as hell, black hair slicked back, little toothbrush mustache under his nose, wearing a tank-top shirt bulging with muscles he probably got lifting weights in the slammer.

"Man comes in your club ...”

"First time I ever saw him.”

"He killed a cop's father, you know that?" Ollie said. "No, I didn't know that.”

“That makes it very serious," Ollie said. "He maybe killed Juju, too, which is no great loss, but justice must be served, hm? I'm eager to talk to him. Find out where the two of them went when they left here. Find out what they talked about. Find out did Sonny shoot him in the head, what do you think?”

"About what?”

"About did Sonny shoot him?”

"I don't know what Sonny did. He never came back here since that Friday night. I don't know where he lives, or what he does for a living. You're pissing up the wrong tree.”

"Maybe so. Can I have another beer? This is very nice beer.”

Mendez opened another Heineken for him.

"You think he lives in the neighborhood?" he asked. "I'm pretty sure he don't.”

“How you suppose he got here?”

“He came looking for Juju.”

"I didn't say why, I said how.”

“I don't follow you.”

"Fransportation," Olllie said.

Mendez looked at him.

"Everybody has to have a means of transportation.

He comes all the way up here to Hightown, how did he get here? Did he walk? Did he take the subway? Did he ride a bus? Did he come in a tax ...”

“He drove here," Mendez said. Ollie put down the beer bottle. "How do you know that?”

“I saw his car.”

“What kind of car?”

“A Honda.”

“What color?”

“Green.”

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

"No. Why would I look at the license plate?”

"Anything peculiar about the car? Dented fender? Broken tail light, anything that might identify it?”

“Not that I saw.”

"When was this?”

“That I saw the car?”

“Yeah.”

"Friday night. When he came back to the club lookin for Tirana.”

"The hooker, yeah.”

"She's a manicurist.”

"I'm sure she does great nails. That's when you saw the car, huh?”

"Yeah. There was a parking ticket on the windshield. He tore it up and drove off.”

Bingo, Ollie thought.

1Sack at the preCllltst, t.lx." ,.,..,............. and asked for a kick-up on parking tickets written Friday night, August 28, targeting a green Honda parked in front of the Club Siesta. One of the sergeants there didn't get back to him until three o'clock. He informed Ollie that the green Honda was an Accord registered to a woman named Coralee Hilbert, who lived at 1114 Clarendon Avenue, in a better section of Diamondback, such as it was. Ollie took a cab uptown. He didn't like to drive because the steering wheel and his belly were always in contention. Besides, when he took a cab, he charged it to squad room petty cash, and if anybody questioned this, he told him where to go.

There was another benefit to taking taxis. It enabled him to enter into lively discussion with Pakistani drivers.

The first thing Ollie always did with a Pakistani cabdriver or for that matter, any cabdriver who looked like a fuckin foreigner, which was only every other cabdriver in the city was show his shield. This was so there'd be no heated arguments later on; some of these fuckin camel jockeys were very sensitive.

"Police officer," he said at once, flashing the tin.

"I' mgoing to 1114 Clarendon Avenue.”

The driver said nothing.

"If you heard me, blink," Ollie said.

"I heard you, sir.”

"Good. Do you know where Clarendon Avenue is?”

“I know where it is, sir.”

"Terrific, we're already ahead of the game. I'm in kind of a hurry, Abdul, but I wouldn't want you to speed.”

The driver's name was MunsafAzhar, displayed on a red card to the left of the yellow cab license, but Ollie called every Paki cabdriver Abdul.

Not only did it make life much simpler, it also provided the enjoyment of watching the slow burn when the cabbie realized he couldn't get pissed off at a cop.

"I see you got the bomb these days," Ollie said pleasantly.

"Yes, sir," the cabbie said.

"Does that mean you'll be declaring war on America soon?”

"America is our friend," the cabbie said. "Bullshit," Ollie said.

"Truly, sir.”

"Even though we ain't sending you no more money?”

"I suppose we'll have to get by somehow," the cabbie said.

Had Ollie detected a slight touch of sarcasm there? One thing he hated among everything else he hated was baggy-pantsed foreigners trying to be clever.

"How you gonna get the bomb to the launching pad?" he asked. "Carry it on a donkey cart?" The cabbie said nothing. "Pack it on a camel?”

"We have means of transportation, sir.”

"Oh, I'm sure you do. Must be yellow cabs all over the country, same as here. Big industrialized nation got the bomb now, can blow everybody to bits.”

"We live in a bad neighborhood, sir.”

"Bullshit," Ollie said. "Everybody lives in a bad neighborhood. This is a bad neighborhood right here. You see any nuclear bombs in this neighborhood?”

"we nave powetul ""-", .... "Ah, yes, m'boy, I'm certain you do, and what a pity it is. Are you in a hurry to get home now that your country's got the bomb? Go defend your nation against all these powerful enemies?”

"I am in no hurry, sir.”

"I'll bet you're not. What'd you live in there, a fuckin mud hut?”

"I had a proper apartment, sir.”

"I'll bet you made a fortune there, driving a yellow cab all over the place.”

"We are a poor country, sir, that is true.”

"But rich enough to build a fuckin bomb, huh?”

"We are only trying to protect ourselves, sir. America has the bomb, too, you know.”

"Oh, do we? But in America we don't marry off our six-year-old daughters, do we?”

"You're thinking of India, sir.”

"Gee, is that India? Where they marry off their six year-old daughters to their eight-year-old cousins? I thought it was Pakistan. Pakistan must be the place where you wipe your ass with your left hand, is that Pakistan? The unclean hand?”

"We are a proud nation, sir. And we are proud to have built the bomb, yes, sir.”

"Now all you got to do is use it, right? That should make you real proud. Two big industrialized nations in a hurry to blow up the world.

It's just ahead there, Abdul. Clarendon Avenue.”

"I know the street, sir.”

"Oh, I'm sure you do. I'll bet you could even get a job driving a cab in London, you know the streets so good.”

qlae cabbie pulled to the curb in front of 1114. The fare was six dollars and ten cents. Ollie gave him ten dollars and told him to take seven and give him a receipt. The cabbie gave him a receipt and three dollars in change. Ollie opened the door. There was not a word from the driver.

"What language do you speak in Pakistan?" Ollie asked.

"Urdu or Hindi," the cabbie said. "Why do you ask, sir?”

"Is there a word for "Thanks' in those languages?”

"Sir?”

"Because it's the custom with big nuclear powers to say thanks when somebody gives you a fuckin dollar tip on a six-dollar ride. Or are you too busy buildin bombs?”

"I said thank you, sir.”

"Bullshit," Ollie said, and got out, and left the door on the curb side open so the driver would have to get out of the cab to come around and close it.

1114 Clarendon was a six-story brick in a row of similar buildings.

Ollie checked the mailboxes in the entry, and found one for an L.

Hilbert in apartment 2A. He hit all the bell buttons under the mailboxes, heard a chorus of answering buzzers and pushed open the inside door. This was a nice quiet building, no cooking smells, no smells of piss in the halfway. He climbed to the second floor, found 2A at the top of the Stairs, looked for a bell button, found none, and knocked on the door.

"Yes?" a woman's voice called.

"Police," he said.

"What?"“

"Police, ma' am, would you open the door, please?”

“Police?" the woman said. "Yes, ma'am.”

He waited. He knocked again. The door opened almost at once. A girl who couldn't have been older than twenty, twenty-one, was standing there in jeans and a cotton T-shirt.

"Coralee Hilbert?" he said.

"Coral," she said.

"Okay to come in, Coral?”

"Why?" she said.

"You own a green Honda Accord with the license plate WU 3200?”

"I do.”

"Like to talk to you about a violation, ma' am. Is it okay to come in?”

"Let me see your badge," she said. "Shield," he corrected. "What?" she said.

"Never mind," he said, and took out the leather fob and showed her his gold and blue-enameled shield with the word DETECTIVE in an arc over the city's seal.

"A detective?" she said, surprised. "What kind of violation is this?”

"Just a parking ticket, miss," he said, "nothing to worry about," and closed the door behind him. "You know anybody named Sonny Cole?”

They were standing in a small kitchen in a neat apartment, living room beyond, doors leading off to what he supposed were two bedrooms.

Windows facing-south. Afternoon sunlight streaming in. The place titinrned with air-conditioning. It was cool and clean and pleasant. He wondered if the girl was a hooker.

"What about him?" she asked.

"Was he driving your car this past Friday night?”

"He's been driving my car for almost two weeks now.”

"How come?”

"I lent it to him.”

"What's your relationship with him, miss?”

"We're friends.”

“How long have you known him?”

"About three months.”

"And you loaned him your car?”

"He's a good driver.”

"Must be. Parked in a no-parking zone, must be an excellent driver.”

"So what's the big deal? A parking ticket? They send out detectives on parking tickets?”

"You know anyone named Juju Judell?”

"No.”

"Sonny ever mention him to you?”

"No.”

"When's the last time you saw Sonny?”

“He stops by every now and then.”

“When's the last time he stopped by?”

“Couple days ago.”

"Did he happen to stop by on Friday night?”

"No.”

"This past Friday night. Didn't stop by then?”

"No.”

"When did he stop by?”

cool and "Sunday?”

was a "Well, was it or wasn't it?”

"I just told you.”

"You made it sound like a question.”

9”

"No, it was Sunday. We went to the stree!

weeks Culver.”

"He isn't living here, is he?”

"No, I live here with my mother.”

"What do you do for a living, miss?”

"I'm a student?”

"You're not a manicurist?”

"A manicurist? What?”

"Do you know where Sonny lives?”

"No, I don't.”

"Never been to his apartment?”

an "Never.”

"He just stops by here, is that it?”

"Yes.”

"Gets his nails done, right?”

"What?”

"Where do you go to school, miss?”

"Ramsey U.”

"Studying what?”

"Communications.”

"Learning to communicate, huh?”

"Learning television broadcasting.”

"Why'd you lend him your car?”

"He's trying to collect money he lent his husband.”

"His what?”

"His cousin had an operation and Sonn) husband thousands of dollars to pay for it.”

"His cousin's husband, huh?”

"Yes. His first cousin. Well, they're separated now.

Which is why Sonny needed a car. So he could follow him and maybe he'd lead him to his cousin.”

"Where'd you get this story, miss?”

"It isn't a story. Sonny needs to find his cousin, the one who had the kidney operation ...”

He c "A kidney operation, I see." phon "So he can ask her to plead his case, tell her former ansv husband to pay him back the money." the "So he's trailing this guy around.”

"Yes." him "In your car.”

“

"Yes. He's a cop, you may even know him." ,”

"Who's a cop?”

WIThe guy who owes him the money.”

"Sonny Cole is trailing a cop ?" Ollie said.

"That's what he told me.”

Oh, Jesus, Ollie thought.