The Big Bad City

15.

He called the Eight-Seven the minute he found a pay phone. This was now around three-thirty. Parker answered the phone and told him Carella was in with the lieutenant just then.

"Tell him the guy who killed his old man is trailing him," Ollie said.

"In a green Honda.”

"No kidding?" Parker said.

"Sonny Cole. Tell him. The license plate number is WU 3200. Did Murchison tell you my nun joke?”

“No.”

"Forget it, I got a better one.”

"Let me hear it," Parker said.

"These two nuns are riding back to the convent on their bicycles, and they take a wrong turn?”

“Yeah?”

"They're bouncing along the road, and one of the nuns realizes they're lost so she asks the other nun, "Have you ever come this way before?”

And the other nun says, "No. It must be the cobblestones.”

“

"I don't get it," Parker said.

"Discuss it with Murchison," Ollie said. "And don't forget to tell Carella. Sonny Cole. A green Honda.

WU 3200.”

"Yeah, yeah.”

“Write it down.”

“Yeah, don't worry.”

"Put it on his desk.”

"Yeah, fine. Is it that she realizes they're lost because of the cobblestones?" Parker asked.

"Yeah, you got it, pal," Ollie said, and hung up.

"So what Roselli's saying is she killed the man, is that it?" Byrnes asked.

"That's what he's saying," Brown said. "Who's to contradict him? A dead woman?”

“Is what he's counting on.”

“Have you got a theory?”

"Well ... let's say Roselli's telling the truth. She did kill Charlie Custer. In which case, she quit the band and went back to the order so she could hide.”

"From who? The police down there already closed it out, didn't they? Who's she hiding from?”

"Roselli.”

"The only witness to the crime. Okay, that makes sense.”

"On the other hand, if she didn't kill him ...”

"Then Roselli did.”

"Right. And she still went back to the order so she could hide from him.”

"Because she witnessed his crime.”

So she disappears completely, becomes Sister Mary Vincent again.”

"None of these guys knew she'd once been a nun, is that right?”

"Came as a total surprise to them.”

"So running back to the convent was actually a good idea.”

"Perfect way to vanish.”

"So what happened' He touched her-: "That's what he's got to tell us, Pete.”

“Why should he?" The office went silent.

"You think he's the one who wrote that letter to her?”

“Could be.”

"But we haven't got the letter.”

"That's right?”

"So we don't know what it said.”

"If he's the one who ransacked her apartment, that's what he was looking for.”

"And if he found it, he burned it a minute later.”

“So we're back to zero.”

“He's a user, Pete.”

“How do you know?”

"Fames told us. Four years ago he was doing pot ...”

“Everybody does pot when he's a kid.”

“Not such a kid, Pete. He was twenty-four?”

"Even I did pot when I was twenty-four," Byrnes said.

"He graduated. At Figgs's funeral, he was sniffing coke.”

"Still according to Fames?”

“Yes.”

“Reliable?”

“Who knows?”

"Okay, let's say he's a user. What are you looking for?”

"Guy's on cocaine, he needs money. He told us he's having a hard time finding work, been giving piano lessons to make ends meet. Okay, let's say he tracked Katie down, tried to blackmail her. Told her he'd blow the whistle on the murder unless she paid him two grand. So she ...”

"That's assuming she did it. You can't blackmail a person who's ...”

"No, it's assuming he'll say she did it.”

"He's already got his story, Pete. The same one he told us. Katie killed Custer.”

"All he has to do is tell it again.”

“Or threaten to tell it.”

“That's blackmail, Pete.”

“Give me two grand or I go to the police.”

“Where'd you get that figure?”

"That's how much she asked her brother for.”

“But he turned her down,”

Brown said.

"Okay, so she goes to the park empty," Byrnes said. "What then?”

"He kills her.”

"Why?”

The office went silent again.

"Find something," Byrnes said.

It was almost four-thirty when they came out of Byres's office. Andy Parker had already left for the day. As always, he'd been in a hurry to get out of there. Maybe this was why he'd neglected to leave a note about Sonny Cole and the green Honda. Or maybe he simply didn't think it was important.

In the Chevy sedan, on their way home, Carella and Brown tried to dope out their next move. They concluded it would be fruitless to ask for a search warrant for the letter stolen from Katie's apartment if indeed a letter had been stolen and if, further, the letter had been stolen by the person who'd murdered her. Byrnes was right. If the letter was that important, it would have been burned a minute after the thief left her apartment.

They couldn't search Roselli's house for a murder weapon, either, because the weapon had been the killer's hands. Nor could they go to a judge and say they wanted to look through the house for cocaine because they couldn't for the life of them see how they could show probable cause and they knew a judge would tell them to go home and be nice boys.

They could arrest Roselli and put him in the box, of course, in the hope that he'd fall all to pieces without a fix and tell them all about how it was he himself who'd shoved Custer over that railing and not little Katie Cochran. But that was for the movies. If Roselli had, in fact, killed Katie he'd simply refuse to answer any questions. Only this time there wasn't a handy burglary they could charge him with.

Earlier today, the judge at Leslie Blyden's arraignment had set a very low bail of one thousand dollars, which The Cookie Boy had easily met.

Whether he now left town was entirely up to him. They didn't want a repeat performance from Roselli.

It was a little past six '.M. Brown was driving Carella home first, and they had almost reached his house in Riverhead.

"I keep wondering if she'd still be alive," Brown said.

"How do you mean?”

"If the brother had only lent her some of that money he inherited.”

The car went silent.

And then, both detectives started speaking at the same time.

"Didn't Roselli say ... ?”

"How'd he know ... ?”

And all of a sudden, everything fell into place.

On the phone, Roselli's wife told them he'd already left for a job in the city.

"Where in the city?" Carella asked.

"What is this?" she said. "You're beginning to upset me and the children, bothering us all the time.”

"Sorry, Mrs. Roselli," Carella said. "We just have a few more questions.”

"He's playing in the band shell at the Seventh Street Seaport. I wish you'd leave us alone. Really," she said, and hung up.

The seaport was a reconstructed area on the River Dix. Two blocks of souvenir shops and food stands lined a boardwalk that ran into an oval-shaped dance floor with a band shell behind it. Pennants flapped on a hasty river wind. Music wafted on the soft evening summer air.

Roselli was part of a four-piece rock group playing all the golden oldies Carella knew by heart. Hearing the music that had been so vital to him when he was growing up, seeing all the pretty young girls in the arms of handsome young boys, he remembered again that he would soon be forty. On the river, a cruise boat drifted past. Carella could hear the guide over the loudspeaker, telling the passengers they were passing the Seventh Street Seaport. Everything suddenly seemed so poignant to him, as if it were in imminent danger of becoming lost forever. It was seven-forty P.M. and the sky was already melting into the river.

"There he is," Brown said. The tune ended. The teenagers on the floor applauded. The band played a little signature rift, and came down off the platform. Carella could not shake the feeling of impending loss.

"Hey," Roselli said, "what are you guys doing here?”

"Mr. Roselli," Brown said, "how'd you know Katie's parents were dead?”

“She told me," he said. "When?”

"While we were on tour. She was very upset about it.”

“Told you they'd been in a car accident?”

"Yes.”

"Told you this four years ago?”

"Sometime on the tour, I don't know if it was exactly four years ago.”

"Explained that her rich brother who'd inherited all that money didn't want to have anything to do with her, is that right?”

"Yes.”

"Did she happen to mention when the car accident took place?”

"No.”

"Last July, Sal.”

"Not four years ago, Sal.”

"The Fourth of July, Sal. Last year.”

He looked at them. He wasn't doing any arithmetic because he knew it was too late for arithmetic. He knew exactly what they knew. He knew Katie couldn't have told him about her parents unless he'd seen her since last July. He knew he'd made a mistake, and the mistake was a bad one, and he couldn't see any way of correcting it. Across the river, lights were beginning to show in apartment buildings. When night came in this city, it came with heart stopping suddenness.

He put his head in his hands and began weeping.

"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. He himself has been smoking pot all night long, and is a bit dazzled, so to speak. He certainly hopes Katie isn't too tired to count the money.

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. Finally, he sets the bottle down on top of the safe. his 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? And how is he himself, Salvatore Roselli, going to know the difference between a single and a hundred-dollar bill, so absolutely wonderfully stoned is he.

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 thins, the cries of animals in the deep dark. Only the alligators are silent.

Sal is slumped in one of the big black leather chairs, T-shirt all sweaty, legs stretched out, beginning to doze. 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.

He turns to Sal where he's sprawled half-asleep in the black leather chair.

"Hey, Piano Boy," he says, and staggers over to him. "You want this money?”

Sal opens his eyes.

"Would you like to get paid?" he says.

"That's why we're here, boss," Katie says.

"You want this money?" Charlie asks again, and shakes the bills in Sal's face.

"Stop doing that," Sal says, and flaps his hands on the air in front of him, trying to wave the money away.

"Sweet Buns, you want this money, here's what you got to do," he says, and shoves the wad of bills into the right-hand pocket of the 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," Katie says.

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

"Come on, Charlie.”

"You want me to put this money back in the safe? Or you want me to put my pecker in little Sally's mouth here?”

"Come on, Charlie.”

"Which?" Charlie says. "Cause that's the way it's gonna be, Katie.

Either the boy here 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 Sal's chin in his hand now, and he is squeezing hard and moving in on him with a drunk's bullheaded determination, waving his bulging purple cock at him the way he waved the wad of money only minutes ago.

City-boy coward that he is, Sal sits frozen in Charlie's grip, incapable of movement.

It is Katie who says, yet another time, "Come on, Charlie," and hits him from behind with the beer bottle he left on the safe. Beer flies in a fine spray as she swings the bottle at his head. The man staggers, but he is not essentially wounded, Katie's blow is ineffectual at best. But Sal is instantly on" his feet, shoving out at Charlie's chest, pushing the fat drunken fool through the open French doors and out onto the deck, and then lunging at him one last time, his fingers widespread on Charlie's chest, a hiss escaping his lips as he 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.

Sal is breathing very hard. He has just killed a man. "The money," he says.

"You killed him," Katie says. "The money. It was in his pocket?”

"Never mind the money.”

"Do you remember the combination?”

“Sweet mother of God, you killed him!”

“The combination. Do you remember it?”

On the river below, there is an appalling stillness. Three to the right, stop on twenty, two to the left, past twenty, stop on seven. One to the right, stop on thirty-four.

Katie recites the numbers aloud to him as he slowly turns the dial to the right, and to the left, and then to the right again. He opens the door. From the wad of money in the safe, he peels off the money due them, and returns the rest to the safe, and closes the door, and twists the dial to lock it again. Katie watches as he wipes the dial and the handle clean. She is moving. from foot to foot, like a little girl who has to pee. He wipes the beer bottle, too, and puts it back on the safe top where Charlie had earlier left it. He looks around one last time, and then they leave the office.

In the van, he says, "Got the bread, let's go," and Katie -pulls her T-shirt away from her body, encouraging the cool flow from the air conditioner.

They were afraid he might Spock. They had read him his rights and taken him back to the precinct, and now they were fearful he might not say another word. He was still in tears. They didn't want him to collapse entirely, so they decided to let Carella handle it alone, less threatening that way. They were in the Interrogation Room now. The other detectives were behind the one-way mirror in the room next door, watching, listening, scarcely daring to breathe. Carella turned on the video camera, and read Roselli his rights again.

Sometimes they-spooked when they heard the Miranda recitation for the second time. It made everything seem irrevocable beyond that point.

Made them think Hey, maybe I should ask for a lawyer. With professionals, there was never any question. They always asked for a lawyer first thing. With the amateurs, like Roselli, they either figured they could outsmart the police, or else they were so guilt-ridden they wanted, to spill it all. Carella waited. Roselli nodded.

Yes, he understood his rights and was willing to answer questions without a lawyer present. Carella needed it in words.

"Okay to go on then, Mr. Roselli?”

"Yes.”

No more Sal. Now they were equals. Mr. Roselli and Mr. Carella, two old friends sipping cappuccino and discussing politics at a round outdoor table in the sunshine. But the light was fluorescent, and the table was long and cigarette-scarred, and the coffee was made down the hall in the Clerical Office and served in cardboard containers, and the subject was murder. "Want to tell me what happened, Mr. Roselli?”

Roselli sat there, looking at his hands. "Mr. Roselli?”

“Yes.”

"Can you tell me?”

"Yes.”

Carella waited.

"I spotted her by accident.”

“Katie?”

“Yes?”

"Katie Cochran?”

"Yes. I hadn't seen her in four years, she'd changed a lot.”

He fell silent, remembering.

"She used to look like a teenager," he said. "Now she looked ... I don't know. Mature?”

Carella waited.

"She seemed so ... serious," Roselli said. "I didn't know she was a nun, of course. Not just then. Not when I first saw her.”

He began weeping again.

Carella moved a box of tissues closer to where Roselli was sitting. The tears kept streaming down his face. Carella waited. The room was still except for the sound of Roselli's sobbing and the faint whirring of the video camera. Carella wondered if he should risk a prod. He waited another moment.

"Where'd you run into her?" he asked.

Gently. Softly. Casually. Two gents sipping their coffees. Sunshine gleaming on white linen.

"Mr. Roselli?”

"At St. Margaret's.”

He took another tissue from the box, blew his nose. Dried his eyes.

"The hospital," he said, and blew his nose again. He sighed heavily.

Carella was hoping he wasn't about to quit. Call it off. That's it. No more questions. He kept waiting.

"I thought a friend of mine had OD'd, I rushed him to the emergency room," Roselli said. "It turned out he was okay, but Jesus, his face had turned blue! Katie just walked through, I couldn't believe it. I was busy with my friend, I thought he was going to die. I see this woman who looks like Katie, but doesn't look like Katie. I mean, you.

had to know Katie back then. When she was singing.? A million kilowatts, I swear. This woman looked so ... I don't know ... serene? Walking into the emergency room. Straight out of the past. Composed.

She stopped to say a few words to one of the nurses, and then whoosh, she was out the door and gone. I asked-the nurse who she was. She said That's Sister Mary Vincent. I said What? Sister Mary Vincent, she salct again. She-s a nun. works upstairs in Extensive Care. Sister Mary Vincent? I thought. A nun? I figured I'd made a mistake?”

He shook his head, remembering, remembering. Carella glanced up at the video camera. The red light was still on. The tape was still rolling.

Don't quit on me now, he thought. Keep talking, Sal.

"I went back. I had to make sure this wasn't Katie. Because if it was her, I wanted to ask her about that night four years ago. The way you want to ask your mother things about when you were a kid, do you know? I wanted to ask Katie about what had happened that night. Wanted to make sure that night had really happened. That night with Charlie Custer. When we killed him.”

It occurred to Carella that the only one who'd killed Custer was Roselli himself. He was the one who'd pushed him over that railing to his death. Yes, technically, they'd acted in concert, Katie hitting him with the bottle, Roselli shoving him over to the alligators. And technically, yes, a prosecutor could make a case against both of them.

Katie's intent hadn't been to kill, though, and Roselli had been acting in self-defense. A defense attorney could make a case for that as well. There were times when Carella was grateful he was merely a cop.

"I waited outside the emergency room door," Roselli said, "in the parking lot there, where the ambulances come in. This was two or three days later. Nurses were walking in and out. It was Katie, no question about it. I didn't approach her because I wasn't sure what she might do. She'd quit the band and dlsappeared. he'd become a nun and taken a new name. Had she run because she was afraid of the law? Or afraid of me ? Had she become a nun because she was hiding? From the law? Or from me?”

He nodded again, remembering. Kept nodding. Trying to understand.

Hands folded on the tabletop. Fingers working. Kneading his hands on the tabletop.

"I looked her up in all the phone books, but there were no listings for anyone named Mary Vincent. So I followed her home one day," he said.

"She lived in a walk-up on Yarrow. I checked the mailboxes and found one for Mary Vincent. So now I knew how to reach her if I wanted to.

But why would I want to?”

And now Roselli seemed to drift, his voice lowering almost to a whisper, confiding to Carella as if indeed the two of them were basking alone in the sun somewhere. Unaware of the camera now, he turned his gaze inward, and words spilled from his heart like shattered glass.

Carella listened, pained.

I knew a nun wouldn't have a pot to piss in, but she came from a well-to-do family, you know. In Pennsylvania someplace. On the road, she was always talking about them. Her father was a university professor, her mother, was a psychiatrist. That was money there. What would a couple of thousand mean to a family like that? I didn't know her parents were dead, of course. I learned that later. That night in the park. I didn't know her brother had inherited all their goddamn money. I just thought ... you know ... if I asked her for a little money, just to tide me over, just until I could square myself with the man, get a steady gig someplace, then maybe she could get it from her parents, you know? I know if one of my daughters was a nun, I'd give her the world. The world. I love those little girls. I'd give them the world. So maybe Katie's parents would help her out. Was what I thought.

I couldn't phone her, she wasn't listed, but I didn't want to walk up to her on the street, either. Hey, Katie, remember me? Remember the night you and I killed Charlie Custer? Remember the alligators eating him? A laugh riot, remember? Do you remember all of it, Katie, the way I remember all of it except when I'm lost in Dopeland? Do you remember, Katie? I wrote her a letter.

It was dated Monday, August tenth. I know because I read it again after I broke into her apartment to get it back. I tore it up the minute I got home. Flushed the bits and pieces down the toilet. The letter said Hi, Katie, it's good knowing you're still alive and well. I don't want to bother you, Katie, I know you have a new life now, but I'm in a little trouble, and maybe you can help me out. This is what it is. I need a couple of thousand dollars-to square a debt. I was hoping you could ask your parents for a loan until I get on my feet again. Do you think that would be possible? I would appreciate your help. Please call me, Katie. I'm living out on Sand's Spit just now, in a small development house. The number there is 803-7256. I mean you no harm. I just need money. Considering our past together, I feel certain you'll help. Please call.

She never called!

I figured she must have got the letter sometime that week. Even if she got it late in the week say Thursday or Friday, she should have called. But she didn't.

So I wrote her a second letter. This one was dated Saturday, August fifteenth. It went down the toilet, too, right after I found it in her apartment. What it said was I really had to have the money right away because the man I owed it to was making serious threats. I told her I knew her parents were wealthy, so please ask them for it, can you? All I need is two thousand. I asked her to meet me the following Friday in Grover Park. August twenty-first. Six-thirty P.M." I said. Come in on Larson Street. Go to the third bench on the right. I'll.be sitting there waiting for you. Please bring the money. I won't harm you, Katie. I promise. Please meet me, Katie We are old friends. Don't you remember, Katie? Please help me.

I was waiting there for her at six-thirty that night. She didn't arrive until seven. I was just about to leave. She told me she'd been walking through the park. She told me she'd been praying. Affirming that God still approved of the decision she'd made. That was the word she used. Affirming.

So here we are,-she said. Smiling. Looking serene and placid and ... well ... almost beatific.

She told me I was looking very good, which was a lie, and I told her I was happy she'd decided to meet me. I told her I was so surprised to learn she was a nun, had she given up singing altogether? You were such a good singer, I said.

I sing on the ward sometimes, she said. To my patients.

She told me she dealt mostly with terminally ill patients. I said I found that so hard to imagine. Katie Cochran a nun on a hospital ward? Singing to terminally ill patients? Come on, I said.

"Come on, Charlie.”

I told her I was married now and had two little girls, Josie and Jenny.

My wife's a lovely girl, Katie, I'd like you to meet her one day.

I'd love to meet her, Katie said.

I told her I was sorry I had to bother her this way but I really was in a bind.

I really need the money, I said. Really, Katie. Katie, I'm a drug addict, I said. I'm sorry to hear that, she said.

My wife is clean, though, totally sober. Well, she's what you might call a recreational user, she does it just to keep me company every now and then. I told her I was in serious trouble. I told her because of the cocaine I owed close to three thousand dollars to my dealer. If I could pay him two now, he'd let the rest slide till I could get a steady gig someplace.

So did you bring the money? I asked.

Your letters sounded so threatening, she said. No, no. I meant you no harm.

Yes, those words especially. "I mean you no harm.”

Why would you want to harm me? I don't.

But your words. "Considering our past together." And in the second letter, "Don't you remember, Katie?" Such threatening words.

No, no, I didn't mean them that way.

They frightened me, Sal. Your words. I prayed that God would forgive your words. It was odd, receiving your letters when I did. After I'd already made my decision.

Katie, did you bring the money? I tried to get it, she said. Tried? I called my brother in Philadelphia. He inherited a lot of money when my parents died. They were killed in a car crash last July, Sal.

I'm sorry to hear that. But ... The Fourth of July. He inherited everything they had. I was sure he would help me. He'd helped me before, you see.

Tried? I said.

He turned me down. I'm sorry, Sal. I tried.

No I Go to him again!

He'll refuse again. I almost knew he would, Sal. You see, God had already ... Katie, I don't want to hear about God! Just go to your brother ... It was God who revealed the way, Sal. I prayed so hard for guidance. And at last, He forgave me. Even before I got your letters ... Damn it, Katie ... I knew I could forgive myself. God's will had become my will.

That same unsettling smile was on her face. This was now getting on seven-thirty, the lights had already come on in the park, the sky was beginning to deepen but she seemed to be staring into a blinding light, smiling. I've forgotten the past, Sal. All of it. God has helped me do that.

1o one can folgt tn l.a, I can, she said. I have. Pray to God, she said. Let him forgive you, Let him help you forget, too.

But I was remembering.

As she spewed all this religious crap, I was remembering everything that happened four years ago, on that sweltering night at the beginning of September. The noises of the night outside those French doors open to the river. The two of us in Charlie's office, alone with him.

Charlie's obscene advances. Unzipping himself. Exposing himself to her. A young girl like Katie.

"You want this money?" Charlie asks again, and shakes the bills in Katie's face.

Does God have two thousand dollars? I said. To pay the man who's ready to break my fingers? My fingers! I said, and held up my hands to show them to her, waggling them in her face.

"Stop doing that," Katie says, and flaps her hands on the air in front of her, trying to wave the money away.

My livelihood, I said. My music, Katie! My life.t I'm sorry, she said.

"Cause that's the way it's gonna be. Either the little girl here sucks my dick, or you don't get paid." Listen to me, I said.

Forget that night, she said. Pray to God and He'll forgive you. Sal.

The way He's forgiven me. Believe me, Sal, God will hear you!

Fuck God! I said.

She gave me a shocked little cry. Her hand went to her lips.

t..mi your brother again, sala. then i l go to the police. Tell him I remember it all Katie. All of it! You hitting Charlie with the bottle, you shoving him in the river, everything Go to him, I said. Get the money!

I can't go to him again, she said.

Then get it someplace lse! I don't care where, just... Sal, please.

I'm a nun.

Then go to your mother superior, go to the pope, just get the fucking money. Or I'll go to the police. I promise you. I'll ... If anyone goes to the police ... Yes, I will, I said. it'll be me, she said. I looked at her. I'm a nun, she said.

It was very dark on that path. The sun was gone, there was not a breeze stirring.

A nun, she said.

The leaves in the trees were still, the night was still.

Don't make me do it, she said. You're the one who killed him, Sal.

You.

No.

You alone. I'm a nun.

No!

You killed him because he was ... Shut up, I whispered.

for i'm telling you to ... Shut up! I shouted, and grabbed her by the throat.