Vespers

VII

At eleven o'clock that Sunday morning, the twenty-seventh day of May, they buried Father Michael Birney in the Cemetery of the Blessed Virgin Mary of Mt. Carmel, all the way uptown in Riverhead, where there was still a little ground left in which to put dead people. The priest who delivered the funeral oratory was a man named Father Frank Oriella, who had been appointed by the archdiocese of Isola East as temporary pastor of St. Catherine's Roman Catholic Church. Among the mourners was Detective Steve Carella of the 87th Precinct. Father Oriella chose to read his elegy from the first letter of the apostle Paul to the Corinthians.

"The first man was of earth," he read, "formed from dust. The second is from heaven. Earthly men are like the man of earth, heavenly men are like the man of heaven. Just as we resemble the man from earth...”

Carella studied the small group of assemblel mourners.

Father Michael's sister, Irene Brogan-who made the arduous trip from Japan via Los Angeles order to be here for the funeral today- stood by graveside now, listening intently to Father Oriella' carefully chosen text. Martha Hennessy, the priest't housekeeper, had introduced her to Carella he'd arrived. A petite woman with eyes, she told him she'd be happy to help with investigation in any way possible. Carella said was eager to talk to her, and asked if he could have moment of her time after the service.

"... to tell you a mystery. Not all of us shall asleep, but all of us are to be changed - in instant, in the twinkling of an eye, at the sound of last trumpet...”

The forecasters had promised continuing weather for the entire Memorial Day weekend. blazing sun shone down mercilessly on the black top of the coffin poised above the dozen or more young people stood beside the grave, listening to Father Oriella. Carella reco in the group of teenagers the two young girls spoken to yesterday. They were dressed sedately today, not in black- this was a alien color in a young person's wardrobe - dark shades of blue that seemed appropriate to day's burden.

They stood side by side, the one the black hair (Gloria, was that her name?) and blonde girl, Alexis. Both girls were crying. For that matter, so was the entire group of young people with them. He had been a well-loved man, this priest.

"... then will the saying of Scripture be fulfilled: "Death is swallowed up in victory. Oh, death where is thy victory? Oh, death, where is thy sting?' The sting of death is sin, and sin gets its power from the law.

But thanks be to God who has given us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ...”

Poking about the fringes of the crowd like scavenger birds were half a dozen reporters and their photographers, but there were no television crews in evidence, and this surprised Carella. The priest story had received extensive coverage, especially on television, ever since it broke last Thursday. Carella was aware that this was already Sunday. The clock was ticking and the older a case got, the wider became the murderer's edge.

"Lord, hear our prayers," Father Oriella said. "By raising your Son from the dead, you have given us faith. Strengthen our hope that Michael, our brother, will share in His resurrection.”

Here in the sunshine, the assembled priests paid honor to one of their own, standing in solemn black at the edge of the grave, listening to Father Oriella's final words. Highranking police officers were here, too, in blue and in braid, a show of color and support .to let the citizens of this fair city know via the newspaper people that the police were still on the job, if only to weep huge crocodile tears at the graveside.

"Lord God, you are the glory of believers and the life of the just. Your Son redeemed us by dying and rising to life again. Our brother Michael was faithful and believed in our own resurrection. Give to the joys and blessings of the life to come. We this, oh Lord, amen.”

“Amen," the mourners murmured.

A hush fell over the grave site.

There must have been a signal, someone have pressed a button because the coffin on its strap,. began lowering hydraulically, a photo op that could not and would not be missed by paparazzi, who moved forward as the coffin between heaven and earth, silhouetted against the piercing blue sky. Another si perhaps, because the lift stopped, and the coffin suspended now some several inches below the lip the grave, and Father Oriella said another almost a private communication between him his slain brother in Christ, whispering, his moving, and then he made the sign of the cross the grave and knelt to scoop up a handful of spring earth and sprinkled it onto the coffin gleaming in sunshine.

The mourners came now with baby ros distributed by the funeral home, came in a orchestrated effort to lend dignity to death, came staged and solemn farewell, each passing this for the last time, pausing at the grave with its shiny black coffin waiting to descend, tossing the roses onto the coffin, the priests from churches all over the city, the brass from Headquarters downtown, the priest's sister Irene Brogan, and some forty parishioners from St. Catherine's, and the dozen or more teenagers from the church's Catholic Youth Organization, all filing past to toss their roses in farewell, and now the pair from yesterday, Gloria, yes, and Alexis.

And then it was over.

As they moved past the grave and away from it, starkly illuminated in a clear sharp light the photographers must have loved, there was another unseen signal, and the hydraulic lift began humming again, and the coffin dropped slowly into the grave, deeper, deeper, until it was completely out of sight.

Two gravediggers freed the canvas straps from beneath the coffin. They were beginning to shovel earth onto the coffin and into the grave when Carella walked over to where Irene Brogan was standing with Father Oriella, telling him what a beautiful service it had been.

He stood by awkwardly.

At last, she turned from the priest who had replaced her brother, and said, "I'm sorry to have kept you waiting. Please forgive me.”

Tear-streaked face. Blue eyes shining with tears.

Close up, in this harsh light, she looked to be in her early forties. A woman who just missed being pretty, her separate parts somehow not adding up completely satisfying whole. They walked to to where the funeral home limousines were wai in line, shining in the sun. Standing beside the of the closest limousine, Carella watched mourners moving past behind Irene, heading their cars or the closest public transportati Riverhead was a long way from home.

"Mrs., Brogan," he said, "I don't mean to on your family privacy...”

She looked at him, puzzled.

"But in the course of the investigation.., early as a matter of fact...

I read a letter you wrote to brother. Which was when I started calling you in Diego.”

“I think I know the letter you mean," she said.

"The one referring to his letter of the twelfth.”

"Yes.”

"In which he told you... I'm just putting all together from what you wrote, Mrs. Brogan. Bu seemed he was deeply troubled about something "He was.”

"What would that have been?”

Irene sighed heavily.

"My brother was wholly devoted to God," said.

"I've no doubt," Carella said.

And waited.

"But even Christ was sorely tempted in wilderness," she said.

And still Carella waited.

"Let's... can we get in the car?" she asked. lie opened the back door of the limousine for her and then followed her into an interior as secluded as a confessional. The door closed behind him with a snug, solid click.

And now, here in this dim and secret space with its tinted windows and its black leather seats, Irene Brogan seemed to find the privacy she needed to tell her brother's story. She described first the receipt of his letter... "It was postmarked the twelfth, but I didn't get it on the Coast till the following Thursday, the seventeenth. My husband and I were leaving for Japan that Saturday. He sells heavy machinery, this was a business trip, he's still there, in fact. I... I called my brother that Friday. And when.., when he told me what was really troubling him.., the letter... you see, the letter had only hinted at it... but when I called him that Friday...”

At first, he is reluctant to speak about it, The Priest.

He tells her it's nothing, really, he shouldn't have written the letter at all, everything's fine now, she must be very excited about the trip to Japan, hm?

But Irene knows him too well. She was thirteen When he was born, which puts her at forty-five now, and she raised him almost as if he were her own child, her mother being a businesswoman who ran off to work every day and then complained of utter an all weekend long. She knows her brother all too well, and she knows he is hiding now, excited about the trip to Japan indeed; she accompanied her husband to Japan on evi business trip he's made in the past six years! So bides her time, and listens patiently to him telling about someone in the congregation who umbrage over his sermons about the tithe... "He mentioned Arthur Farnes, did he?”

"I don't remember the man's name. But, yes, . was one of the things troubling him...”

... and someone's mother coming to seek and advice about her homosexual son's involved with, of all things, devil worship.., and about... "He was beginning to rattle on by then," said, "do you know the way people sometimes When they're trying to avoid what''s really them? I'm not saying these things weren't bothering him.., the tithe.., and the drugs... the ... "The what?" Carella said.

"Well... drugs, yes. My brother seemed to someone was using the church as a sort storehouse. For drugs. He tore the whole place one weekend, looking for where they were but...”

"Are you saying illegal drugs? substances?”

"Well, yes, I'm sure that's what he meant.”

"He found drugs inside the church?”

"Well, no, he didn't. But he certainly looked for m. At least, that's what he told me. As I said, he tas starting to get a bit hysterical by then. Because he was coming to what the real problem was, and it didn't have a damn thing to do with any of the little things he was talking about. It had to do with...”

A woman.

Her brother is involved with a woman.

He does not tell Irene how this started or even how long it has been going on, but it is tormenting him that he has violated his vows of chastity and himself in a situation from which there is no honorable escape. He loves Jesus Christ and he loves this woman and the two loves are incompatible and irreconcilable. He mentions that he has considered suicide... "He told you this?”

".Yes. On the telephone.”

"Had he considered a way of doing it?”

"What?”

"Did he tell you how he planned to kill himself?.”

"Well, no. I mean, what difference would that make?”

“A lot," Carella said.

"It frightened me, I can tell you that," Irene said.

"I almost cancelled the trip. I thought I'd come east instead, be with my brother, see him through this...”

But he tells her that taking his own life would be even greater sin than breaking his solemn vows.

swears to her and to the good Lord Jesus that he will not even think such thoughts again, swears on the telephone. At Irene's urging, he swe well that he will tell this woman he cannot go! with a relationship that is tearing him apart, continue deceiving God in this way, destro, " is dearest to him. He will once again renounce flesh, as he'd sworn to do so long ago, and pray God's help in living forevermore a chaste spiritual life.

He promises this to his sister.

"And then.., when I got the call from Quentin... we'd just come upstairs from dinner.i was a lovely night there in Tokyo, the blossoms still in bloom, the air so sweet.., and he told me my brother was dead. And...

and... first thing I thought was that he'd killed He'd done it. He'd broken his promise to me.”

The limo went still.

"But this is worse, isn't it?" Irene "Someone killing him that way.”

Yes, Carella thought. This is worse.

Not to kill him, no. To talk to him. To ask him her. Because you can't condemn a person first hearing his side of the story, isn't that true?

can't just begin hating a person until you prove sure that there's really a reason to hate him. this is a man of God, don't forget, this is not someone like you or me, this is a man dedicated his life to God. And if he's going to break the rules that way, then he shouldn't be saying one thing and doing another thing. The rules should apply to everybody.

That's the way rules work.

Everybody knows you have to stop when a traffic light turns red. If you don't stop when it's red, then nobody is obeying the rules, and there'll be an accident, and someone might get killed. Of all people, he should be the one obeying rules, especially the promises he made to God. If you make a promise to God, you have to keep it or God will strike you dead.

That's in the Bible, vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord.

Kissing her. But maybe there was some explanation. On the lips.

Maybe he had some explanation for why he was doing that. Maybe there was something in church custom or church law that you had to kiss a woman on the lips in order to whatever. Bless her maybe.

Greet one another with a holy kiss, that's in the Bible. It was all right to kiss in Scriptures, it was common practice. The one I shall kiss is the man and he came up to Jesus at once and said Hail, Master, and he kissed him. Or when he's sitting at table in the Pharisee's house and the sinner brings an alabaster flask of ointment and wets his feet with her tears and kisses his feet, this was Jesus getting his feet kissed.

It was common in the Bible, look at Solomon, O that you would kiss me with the kisses of your mouth for your love is better than wine, your anointing oils are fragrant, your name is oil poured out, therefore the maidens love you. So maybe there was. explanation, and if you go to the person and ask what the reason is, if there is a reason, then can tell you, explain that he was only greeting holy kiss, you shouldn't judge a book by its ask and it shall be delivered unto you. Was intention. To ask. To inquire. To discover. To from his own lips that this kiss was not appeared to be, was not a man kissing a beautiful woman, in fact, but was instead a holy priest, performing some kind of of do whatever it was he was doing. A holy kiss, the Bible, there are holy kisses, what's in the true, every word of it. Not to kill him, no. To ta him. To ask him about her. But how could he his hands under her skirt, her panties down her ankles, this was not a holy kiss, this could have been a holy kiss, not with her blouse open her naked breasts showing, Oh, may your like clusters of the vine, and the scent of your like apples, and your kisses like the best wine goes down smoothly, gliding over lips and goes down smoothly, goes down no this was holy kiss it was not that no.

The call came at twenty minutes to one afternoon, not five minutes after Willis had gone for the Sunday papers. The moment she heard voice, Marilyn realized they'd been watching ouse, waiting for him to leave before they placed the call.

In Spanish, the voice said, "Good afternoon.”

Buenas tardes.

She recognized the voice at once. The handsome one. The one she had cut.

In Spanish, she answered, "I've been waiting for your call.”

"Ah, did you know we would call?”

Politely. In Spanish. No sense playing games now. They knew who she was.

If they were to do business, it would be simpler to do it in their native tongue. From now on, nothing but Spanish.

"Yes, in fact, I was hoping you'd call," she said.

"We have business to discuss.”

"Ah.”

A note of sarcastic skepticism in that single word.

The Spanish were wonderful at conveying shades of meaning by inflection of the voice alone.

"Yes. I want to pay you. But I'll need time.”

"Time, yes.”

"But I'm not sure I'll be able to raise the entire two million.”

"Ah, what a pity.”

"Because even if I sell everything I own...”

"Yes, that is surely what you must do.”

“ . I'll still be short.”

"Then perhaps you should sell yourself as well.”

A smile in his voice. A nod to the former hooker.

Sell yourself as well. We understand you were good at selling yourself.

"Look," she said, "I think I can raise million, but that's all. More or less.”

Mds o menos.

There was a silence on the line. Then: "You owe us a great deal more than half a mi More or less.”

"To begin with, I don't owe you or your big anything. If that money belongs to anyone, it to...”

"It belongs to whoever will kill you if you pay it.”

"Let's talk straight here, please," she "You're not going to kill me.”

"You're mistaken.”

"No, I'm not mistaken. You kill me, you don't any of the money. If I were you, I'd settle for the hun...”

“If I were you," he said, slowly and silkenb would recognize that there are worse things being dead.”

"Yes, I know that," she said.

"We thought you might know that.”

"I do. But I've only got so many arms and legs., "Y to cara," he said.

And paused meaningfully.

"Y tus pechos," he said.

And paused again.

"Y asi sucesivamente," he said.

i Her face... Her breasts ..

,. And so on.

The last three words, though spoken softly and casually - Y asi sucesivamenta implied unspeakable acts.

She was suddenly very frightened again.

"Look, you're right," she said, "it's true, I don't want anything to happen to me. But...”

"Then you should learn not to cut people.”

"If you're saying you're going to hurt me even if I do come up with the money...”

"I'm saying we'll surely hurt you if you don't come up with the money.

Is what I'm saying.”

"I understand that.”

"I hope so.”

"But what I'm saying is that it's impossible to come up with all of the money. Is what I'm saying.”

"Then that's too bad.”

"Look, wait a minute.”

"I'm still here.”

"How much time do I have here?”

"How much time do you need?”

"Even to raise the five hundred, I'd need a week, ten days.”

"That is out of the question.”

"Then how much time? Name a fucking amount of time I”

“Ah," he said.

Chastisingly. Scolding her for the language used. Tsk, tsk, tsk.

She said nothing for several seconds. Re control. Calming herself. Then she said, "I nee, talk to people who can turn assets into money. takes time. I have to know exactly how much have.”

“Wednesday," he said, and she had the he'd picked a deadline out of the air.

"I don't think I can manage that," she "That's not enough time.”

"It will have to be enough time.”

"I don't think you understand.”

"We understand completely.”

"No. Look, can you listen to me a Please? I want to pay you back, you understand that, I want this thing to be over and with. But...”

"So do we.”

"But you can't show up on someone's and expect them to raise two million dollars in.

"You tell me," he said.

"How much time I'll need?”

"Yes. Tell me.”

"You understand I can only raise half a would be imposs...”

"No, the full two million. How much time?”

"Say.”

"Can I get back to you?”

"We'll call you. Tell us when.”

"This is Sunday...”

"Yes, a day of rest.”

Sarcasm in his voice, the son of a bitch.

I'll have to make some calls tomorrow, find out how long it'll take.”

"Good. What time?”

"Can you call me at three-thirty? No later than that.”

"Why? Will your boyfriend be coming home?”

"Three-thirty," she said. "Please. But, you know, I really think you should prepare yourself for...”

And hesitated.

Silence.

He was waiting.

The silence lengthened.

"Because you know... I really meant it when I said...”

And again she hesitated.

Because she knew what he would say if she told him again that it was impossible to raise much more than half a million. He would threaten her with punishment, raise fears of acid or steel, promise her mutilation.

But the facts had to be stated.

"Listen," she said, "I'm being completely honest with you. I don't want to get hurt, but there's no way I can possibly raise more than half a million. Well, maybe a little more, I'm being honest with you, I hope you realize that, but two million is absolutely out of the question, I just can't do it, there I can turn half a million into two million overnigi There was another long silence.

And then he surprised her.

He did not threaten her again.

Instead, he offered a solution.

"There is a way," he said.

"No there “

“

“ "La St, he said. cocafna.”

And hung up.

Carella did not get back to the squadroom un almost two that Sunday afternoon, after extracti from Irene Brogan a promise that she would call fi housekeeper in San Diego as soon as she retumeff the hotel. He had previously asked her if she still h her brother's May twelfth letter. Irene said s thought it might be somewhere on her desk. The ci to the housekeeper was to ask her to look for tt letter. If she found it, she was to Fed Ex it to Carel at once. Irene seemed to understand why he want, to read the letter himself: a fresh eye, an emofior.

uninvolvement, a mind trained to search for nuan of meaning. But she assured him once again that h brother neither in his letter nor when she'd spok, to him on the telephone had revealed the name the woman with whom he was involved.

Meyer's note was waiting on Carella's desk.

It was typed on a D.D. form, but it was really memo and not a report as such. Informal and r, it detailed Andrew Hobbs's visit to the squadroom late last night (early this morning, to confess that he'd painted the pentagram the church gate and to explain that "it was not the .,vil who made him do it, but his mother Abby.”

Meyer's words. Touch of humor here at the old .even. The report ended with the suggestion that either Carella or Hawes talk to Schuyler Lutherson at the Church of the Bornless One.

Carella carried the memo to the filing cabinet, found the file for the Birney case, and dropped it into the manila folder. He remembered again that this Sunday. Even the hottest of cases got cold after few days without a lead. This case had been cold from the beginning. Nothing solid to pursue until this morning, when suddenly there was a woman in the priest's life. Solid enough, Carella suspected. But cause for murder? In this precinct, where looking cock-eyed at another man's wife could result in a pair of broken legs, a priest fucking around could very well provoke murder, yes. Perhaps even those Words a priest fucking around could incite riot.

He suspected that back in the good old days when jolly friars were tossing up the skirts of giggling peasant girls and tickling their fancies on haystacks religion wasn't taken quite as seriously as it was today. Perhaps something had been lost Over the centuries. Maybe priests weren't supposed to be gods, maybe only God was supposed to be God. But didn't God ever smile? Wouldn't perhaps find it comical that in a parish only blocks from a congregation that openly the Devil, one of His faithful servants was you find another way to describe it, Carella thou To me, he was fucking around.

He suddenly realized that Father indiscretion which was perhaps a better putting it made him enormously angry.

Cherchez la femme, he thought.

But first let's go find Bobby Corrente and ask what he knows about the events that took Easter Sunday.

Bobby Corrente was an even six feet tall and weighed at least a hundred and ninety pounds, bit of it lean, hard muscle. He had sand-colored and hazel-colored eyes, and he bore no resemblance to his father than a beanpole did to a hydrant. Carella figured his mother must have a prom queen. All clean good looks and charm, he rose from the stoop where he'd sitting with two girls who appeared to be a year younger than he was, fifteen, sixteen, in there.

"Nice to meet you, Detective Carella," he and extended his hand.

They shook hands. The girls seemed more in of Bobby than they did of the visiting Open-mouthed, wide-eyed, they looked i at this handsome young man who could talk so easily and naturally to a detective, even shake with him. When Bobby said, "Excuse us, won't you, girls?" signaling that he wanted the girls to depart as graciously as they could, Carella thought they would wet their pants in gratitude.

Smiling, fumbling to their feet, bowing and scraping like handservants in a movie about ancient China, they managed to back away without tripping all over themselves, and then hurried off up the street, glancing back frequently at the radiant boy-emperor who had granted an audience with the local constabulary. Bobby gave a sort of embarrassed shrug coupled with a boyish grin that said, What're you gonna do when you're so handsome? Carella nodded in sympathetic understanding, even though he'd never had such a problem.

"I'm glad I found you," he said. "Few things I'd like to ask you about.”

"Sure, anything," Bobby said.

"From what your father told me, Nathan Hooper was here trying to sell dope on Easter Sunday, is that right?”

"Mr. Crack," Bobby said, and nodded.

"That's his street name, huh?”

"That's what they call him at the school.”

"Mr. Crack.”

"Yeah, the kids at the elementary school. Which .is why we didn't want him in the neighborhood. It's enough he's at the school, am I right? We warned him, we told him stay away from the and stay away from where we live. But he came anyway.”

"Why do you suppose he did that?" Carella "I still can't figure it,” Bobby said, shaking head. "I think he was just looking for trouble.”

"Tell me what happened," Carella said.

What happened was it's two-thirty, three in the afternoon on Easter Sunday, and all the and girls are hanging around outside where D Peretti lives. This is 275 North Eleventh, near Italian deli. It wasn't such a good day, Easter, do remember? A lot of wind, very grey, in fact it like it might snow. We'd all gone to church morning, well, the twelve o'clock mass, this was Easter, we went to St. Kate's where Michael later chased us away. But you can't him, he didn't know what was happening. All knew was a bunch of kids yelling and inside his church.

So we were, I don't know, showing off for girls, clowning around. I remember Allie was his imitation of what was supposed to be Bennett singing I Lost My Heart in San Francis, but he sounded more like Jerry Lewis, did you hear Jerry Lewis sing? Man. Anyway, we making our own fun, you know what I Because the weather was so terrible, and supposed to be spring, supposed to be sunshine Easter, you know? So we were making the best And all at once, there he was.

I couldn't believe my eyes.

None of us could.

I mean, here's Mr. Crack in person, who we told at least a hundred times to keep his shit out of our neighborhood and out of the elementary school, and he comes strutting up the street like he owns it. Man.

Allie stopped doing Tony Bennett, and all of us just sat there watching him come closer and closer. He wears his hair the way they're all wearing it now, shaved close all over and then what looks like an upside down flowerpot on top. He's all dressed up, it's Easter Sunday. He keeps coming. We're all watching him do his shuffle up the street. Sitting there dumbfounded. Trying to figure out is he crazy or what? He's got a big grin on his face. Big watermelon-eating grin. Here's Mr. Crack, boys and girls, here to dispense his goodies. Break out your five-dollar bills, here's the man's going to chase all your cares away.

Afternoon, ladies, he says, and nods to the girls.

As if he's Eddie Murphy, you know?

Instead of some nigger here to sell crack.

Boys, he says, how we doin'?

One of the guys, this is Jimmy Gottardi, he knew t-looper personally from when they were doing this Operation Clean-Up on Fifth. What it was, the neighborhood people were cleaning out this lot that was full of garbage and junk and whatnot. Jimmy and some of the other guys on the block, but who weren't there that Sunday, volunteered to go and lend a hand. So you see right offit isn't true they say happened on Easter. I mean, these w. white guys going over to a black neighborhood help clean up an empty lot. They weren't paid for it, they were doing it as a service. So whoever says this thing on Easter Sund was racist is out of his mind.

Anyway, Jimmy knew Hooper from th Clean-Up thing, so he says Hey, Nate - H first name is Nathan, he calls himself Nate when ain't Mr. Crack Hey, Nate, how you doing, and on, like he's giving him the benefit of the doubt, he giving him an opportunity to say he ain't here crack. And Hooper stands there grinning, Jimmy Oh so-so, man, ever'thin' cool, manknow how they go and Jimmy says What brin you here to Eleventh Street, Nate, and Hooper his eyes up the street, checking it out, you know, his eyes come back all serious and hard and no smile on his face anymore, and he says needin'?

What he means, of course, is does anybody some crack. Because if we need it, he's here to it. He turns to one of the girls...

"This is only what you figured, right?" said. "That he meant he was selling crack.”

"Figured, what do you mean figured? He right out and said it.”

"I thought he only asked if...”

"No, no, that was at first. But then he turned to one of the girls, and he goes, "Honey? You lookin' for some choice crack?'“

This is a fifteen-year-old girl he's talking to, Laurel Perucci, she lives in my building. Fifteen years old, I don't think she even knows what crack is, he's asking her is she looking for some choice crack.

Man. But we still didn't do anything, I mean it. He was here, he was selling dope, but nobody got excited, nobody flew off the handle. In fact, Jimmy who worked with him on the Clean-Up, looks at him and says Come on, Nate, this ain't that kind of neighborhood, something like that, letting him know this is where we live, we don't want no dope here, okay, cool it. And Hooper goes Oh, that right, man?

This ain't that kind of neighborhood, that right? And he turns to Laurel again and he goes, Honey, how you like some of this sweet stuff, huh, baby? and he's holding the vial of crack like right where his cock is, you understand what I'm saying? There's like a double meaning. He's like spitting in our eye.

He's saying not only is he gonna sell crack here, he's also gonna insult, this innocent fifteen-year-old girl.

So it happened.

"What happened?" Carella asked.

"A fight started, what do you think happened?”

"Someone hit him with a baseball bat, isn't that right?”

"No, what baseball bat? There was no baseball bat. It was a fist fight.

This was Easter Sunday, who was playing baseball? Where was a baseball bat gonna come from?”

"Hooper says he got hit with a ball bat.”

"Hooper's a lying bastard.”

“He says he got chased up the street with baseball bats and garbage can lids.”

"Sure. Because he was the one with the fuckin knife.”

"He had a knife?”

"A switchblade knife. He pulled it the minute first punch was thrown.”

"Who threw the first punch?”

“Me. I admit it," Bobby said, and grinned.

"And you say he pulled a knife?”

"First thing he did.”

"Then what?”

"One of the guys hit him from behind, the back the head. And he must've figured the knife going to help him here, he'd better get the hell out here fast. So he began running. And we ran n after him.”

"To the church.”

"Yeah, he ran inside St. Kate's. We chased inside, too. And then Father Michael started we were hoodlums and all that, and get out of hit church, and we tried to tell him this was crack-dealer here, he was trying to sell dope in neighborhood, he insulted one of our girls, he had knife, for Christ's sake... I admit I said that church, I admit I took the name of the Lord in Father Michael had a fit. What? What did you say?

How dare you? Get out of here, this is God's house, all that. So we left. Some things you walk away from, you know what I mean? Some things are a no-win situation.”

"Then what?”

"Then what what? We went home. That was it.”

"Did you see anyone else in the church? While you were there?”

"No. Just Father Michael.”

"Hear anyone else?”

"No.”

"You didn't hear two people arguing?”

"No. What two people?”

"Is it true that you made a blood vow to get both Hooper and Father Michael? For what happ...”

"What are you talking about? What blood vow?”

"For what happened on Easter Sunday.”

"I don't even know what a blood vow is. What's a blood vow?”

"You didn't swear to get them, is that right?”

"For what? Did Hooper come back to the neighbourhood since then? He didn't. Has he been hanging around the school peddling dope? He hasn't.

So what's there to get him for? We got him good enough on Easter.”

"And the priest? Father Michael?”

"He only did what he thought was right. He figured he was helping a poor innocent kid getting beat up by a gang of hoodlums. I'da done the same thing, believe me. If I thought somebody was in right? The very same thing. So why would we ho anything against him? In fact, I've been to every Sunday since. The other guys, too. Church like a meeting place for us. We go to ten o'clo, mass every Sunday. We go to the C.Y.O. dances Friday nights. We had nothing against F. Michael. In fact, he was like one of the guys what happened on Easter. This was a terrible that happened to him. A terrible thing.”

"When you say he was like one of the guys...”

"He was always kidding around with us, know, telling jokes, asking us about our problems, real nice guy, I mean it, you sometimes forgot he a priest. I still think he did what he did on because he misunderstood the situation. He know the kind of person Hooper really is. In wouldn't be surprised...”

Bobby stopped, shook his head.

"Yes, what?" Carella asked.

"I wouldn't be surprised if it turned out had something to do with his murder.”

"Why do you say that?”

"A feeling, that's all.”

"But what gives you that feeling?”

"I don't know. I just know that when a selling dope, anything can happen. Including somebody. That's all I know," Bobby said, nodded in utter certainty. "That's all I know.”

Willis made the call from the squadroom at a little before three that afternoon. With late afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows, he sat at his desk and direct-dialed first 0-1-1 and then 5-4-1, and then the number listed in his international police directory. He waited.

The foreign ringing sounded somehow urgent. Across the room, Andy Parker was typing up a report, pecking at the keys with the forefingers of both hands. The squadroom was otherwise empty. The phone kept ringing. He wondered what he could possibly say if the lieutenant asked why he'd called Buenos... "Central de Policfa," a woman's voice said.

"Hello," he said, "do you speak English?”

“Perd6neme?”

"I'm calling from the United States," he said, careful not to say America, they were very touchy about that down there. "Los Estados Unidos," he said, "I'm a policeman, un policidt," trying his half-assed Spanish, "un detective," giving it what he thought to be the proper Spanish pronunciation, day-tec-tee-vay, "is there anyone there who speaks English, please, pot favor?”

"Juss a mom'enn, please," the woman said.

He waited.

One moment, two moments, three moments, a full six American moments which probably added up to one Argentinian moment, and then a man's voice came on the line.

"Teniente Vidoz, how can I be of assi please?”

"My name is Harold Willis," Willis said, Detective/Third Grade with the 87th Squad here..

t, senor?

"We're investigating a case you might be able help us with.”

"Oh?”

Warily.

There was not a cop in the world who wante, foreign investigation added to his own already heavy case load. Foreign meant anything outside cop's own precinct. It could be the precinct ri next door, this was still foreign. Bahia Blanca, three hundred and more miles south of Buenos was very definitely foreign. Rio Gallegos, all way down near Chile, was practically in a country. And the United States? All the way there?

Don't even ask.

But here was a person who'd identified himself a third-grade detective, which Lieutenant assumed was some sort of inferior in the department, and he was investigating a case, and needed help. Help. From the police in Buenos Norteamericanos were a nervy bunch.

"What kind of help?" Vidoz asked, hoping voice conveyed the unmistakable impression that desired not to help in any way, manner, or What he desired was to go to see his mistress he went home. It was already a quarter to six in Argentina. This was what he desired.

"I have two names," Willis said. "I was hoping you'd be able to run them through for me.”

"Run them through what?" Vidoz asked.

"Your computer. I think they may have criminal records. If so, perhaps you can fax me the...”

"What sort of case is this?" Vidoz asked.

"Homicide," Willis said at once.

The secret password.

Homicide.

No cop in the world wanted to be burdened with a foreign case, but neither would any cop in the world turn his back on a homicide. Willis knew this.

Vidoz knew it. Both cops sighed heavily. Willis in mock weariness after days and nights of working a murder he'd just invented, Vidoz because satisfying this request was a supreme pain in the ass but an obligation nonetheless.

"What are the names?" he said.

"Ramon Castaneda and Carlos Ortega," Willis said.

"Give me your fax number," Vidoz said.

Willis gave it to him.

The information from Buenos Aires came through on the fax at a little past seven that night, which made it a bit past eight down there in Argentina, Where Lieutenant Francisco Ricardo Vidoz was feeding the photocopied records into the and cursing over having missed his evening cita one Carla de Font-Alba. In the Clerical Office at 87th Precinct, Sergeant Alfred Benjamin Mi: pulled the pages as they inched their way out of fax machine, remarked to his assistant Juan Portoles that they were in Spanish, and then that they were earmarked for "Det/3 Harl Wallace" who he guessed was Hal Willis. at the pages there were eight altogether Portoles whistled and said, "These are some hombres, Sarge.”

He was probably referring to several words had caught his eye, words such as... Robo ... Asalto con Lesiones... Violaci6n... and especially Homicidio.