Vespers

VIII

The call from Kristin Lund came as something of a surprise that Monday morning. On her doorstep Saturday night, when she'd pointedly held out her hand for a goodnight handshake, Hawes figured that was the end of that. But here she was now, bubbly and bright, asking if he'd had lunch yet.

"Well, no," he said.

"Because I'm cleaning out some things here at the church, and I thought since I'm in the neighborhood anyway...”

“I'd love to," he said. "Shall I pick you up there?”

"Why don't I come by the station house?" she said. "Maybe you can take my fingerprints again.”

"Maybe," he said, and wondered why the handshake Saturday night.

Actresses, he thought, and shook his head.

"Half an hour okay?”

"Fine," he said.

"I wasn't even sure you'd be working today, said.

"How come?”

"Memorial Day.”

"Oh. Yeah.”

For cops, holidays came and went like any day.

"But I'm glad you are," she said. "See you And hung up.

He put up the receiver, and glanced at the It was now a quarter past eleven. He sat for seconds staring blankly at the sunshine through the grilled windows, still wondering.

A uniformed cop handed the Federal Ex envelope to Carella some ten minutes after left the office. He explained that it had been under some other shit on the muster desk and Sergeant Murchison had just now di When he apologized for any delay this may caused, he sounded slightly sarcastic.

The red-and-blue package contained the Father Michael had written to his sister twelfth of May. It was written on church St. Catherine's Roman Catholic Church raised black letters across the top of the address just below that. Father Michael had the letter by hand, but there was nothing in! handwriting to reveal the obvious emotional had caused him to open his heart to his older ter.

Instead, the hand was small and precise, the marching evenly across the page as if to the cadence of a secret drummer:

My dear sister,

It's been a long time since you and I have talked meaningfully about anything, and I suppose much of this has to do with the disparate and distant lives we lead.

Whatever the cause, I strongly miss the intensely personal and private talks we used to have when I was growing up, and the good advice you gave on more than one occasion. Not the least of which, by the way, was your advice to follow my heart about the call and to enter into the service of our Lord, Jesus Christ.

I write this letter in the hope that I may still reveal to you my deepest feelings.

Irene, I'm very troubled.

I have for the past little while now, since shortly before Easter as a matter of fact, been entertaining the most serious doubts about my ability to love God and to serve Him as devoutly as I've vowed to do. I now have reached the point where I feel incapable of facing a congregation on Sunday, of hearing confessions, of leading the young people in our youth organization, of counseling those in need of spiritual guidance in short, of fulfilling the duties a obligations of the priesthood.

My self-loathing reached its highest peak Easter Sunday, when I failed to extricate m from a situation that had become all-. and debilitating.

I realized then that I caught in the Devil's own snare and had bec a threat not only to myself and the lambs flock, but also to God.

I don't know what to do, Irene. Help Please.

Your loving brother, Michael

Carella read the letter yet another time, and he looked at the opening paragraph of Irene's letter to him:

My dearest brother,

I am now in receipt of yours of May 12th, I cannot tell you with what a saddened hasten to respond. Michael, how have managed to construct such a tower of doubt yourself?. And don't you feel you should your fears to the bishop of your diocese? I don't know how to counsel or advise you.

This from a sister who, in the days of Birney's youth, had given him "good advice on than one occasion." To Carella, her letter read brush-off. Don't tell me your troubles, I'm on my way to Japan. I'll call you before I leave, we'll have a nice chat. By then, it'll be blue skies again, anyway. Besides, I know you'll be able to pray your way to enlightenment and salvation. Poor tormented son of a bitch is having an affair with someone, as it later turns out, but she can't be bothered.

Eyes all full of tears at the funeral yesterday. Carella shook his head.

And then he went to the Clerical Office, and made a copy of Father Michael's letter, and used a yellow highlighter to mark those words or sentences that he thought might prove helpful to the case:

I have for the past little while now, since shortly before Easter as a matter of fact...

The affair, then, had started "shortly before Easter.”

"Shortly" being a relative term, it could have begun two days before Easter or two weeks or even two months. In any case, he hadn't said "For a long time now." His exact words were "For the past little while." Go pinpoint that.

My self-loathing reached its highest peak on Easter Sunday...

Here was Easter Sunday again. The day Nathan Hooper had sought sanctuary in the church. The day he'd heard Father Michael arguing with an unseen man.

The day the priest had heatedly thrown Bobby Corrente and his friends.

...when I failed to extricate myself situation that had become all-consuming debttitating.

Was he referring here to the argument he'd with this unseen, unknown man? Had they arguing about the affair... that had become all-consuming debilitating?

What had this man been telling him when he burst into the church, dripping blood and chased an angry mob?

I realized then that I was caught in the own snare...

The Devil's own snare, Carella thought, wondered what the priest had meant.

"What were you cleaning out at the Hawes asked.

"Oh, just some things in my desk. The who's replacing Father Michael is bringing his secretary with him.”

"Father Oriella? I thought he was temporary.”

"Well, apparently not," Krissie said, and tossed hair the way actresses did. Hawes guessed there acting classes where they taught you how to your hair. I'll be looking for something else ,w. Unless a part comes along," she said, and ged.

On Saturday night, she had told him honestly and y that sometimes she doubted a part would .ver come along. But apparently hope sprang Here it was Monday, and she was singing the ;ss's same sad song again. A part will come And when it comes along, I'll be up for it. if I lose it, it was because they were looking for who was taller. Or shorter. Or blonder. Or Actresses, he thought, and wondered what hell he was doing here.

They were eating in a new Italian restaurant on In this city restaurants sprang up like s (or, in some cases, toadstools) and most new ones were Italian, the American craze for seemingly knowing no limits. Some of the restaurants survived. Most of them went under after struggling for two or three months. Krissie had ordered the veal piccata. Hawes had ordered the cannelloni. Judging from the taste of the sauce, he gave this joint two or three weeks.

"Would it bother you if I talked about the case?" asked.

This morning, Carella had filled him in on what learned at the cemetery yesterday. The priest having an affair. Hawes had listened silently.

guessed the news bothered him, but he didn't quite why.

"Go right ahead," Krissie said.

"I was wondering.., did Father Michael discuss personal matters with you?”

"Like what?”

"Well... personal matters.”

"Like which dentist he should go to? Or whe or not he could afford a new car?”

"No, I was thinking more of... doubts... "No. Never.”

"Did you ever open his mail? Or answer telephone?”

"Yes, of course. All the time.”

"Were there ever any letters or calls from.. hesitated and then thought Go ahead, bite the "Were there ever any letters or calls from w, "Yes, of course," she said.

"Any women in particular?”

"I don't know what you mean," she said.

"Any women who wrote or called more than.., well.., might have seemed appropriate.”

"I still don't know what you're saying.”

“Well..." he said, and hesitated. "We to believe that Father Michael may have involved in something he didn't know ht handle. Something that was causing him distress you know of anything like that, you'd be helping a lot by.. “

"No, I don't know of anything that was troubling "she said.

"Never mentioned any problems or...”

"Never,”

“And these women who called or wrote...”

"Different women. Women in the parish mostly," she said.

"Would you remember their names?”

"Not offhand. But any letters would be in the file...”

"Yes, I saw them.”

"... and I kept a log of all telephone calls - unless the new secretary's already thrown it out.”

"Where would it have been?”

"On my desk. To the fight of the phone.”

"A book, a pad...?”

"One of those printed message pads. Pink. While You Were Out, and so on.

And then a space for the message and the caller's name and number.”

"These women who called.., did any of them ever visit Father Michael?”

"Visit him?”

"Yes. Come to the church. To see him. To talk to "There were women who came to the office, yes," Krissie said, and looked at him. "You know,” she said, "I get the feeling you're.., well.., never mind, I'm sure I'm wrong.”

"Maybe you're right," he said. "What are you thinking?”

"That... well.., from the questions asking.., well, you seem to be suggesting that Michael was.., well...”

" r ¢,, eso "Do you think that might have been the "No.”

"You sound very positive.”

"I think Father Michael was wholly God and to the Catholic Church. I doubt if he noticed women as such. Or thought of them way.”

"In what way?”

"A sexual way. He was very good-looking," know.., well, you saw him...”

Hawes had seen a corpse.

Someone repeatedly stabbed and slashed. "... all the little parish girls were crazy those classic black-Irish looks, that Gene smile...”

The body on the stone floor of the garden been smiling.

They had caught a homicide, period.

The victim was a white male in his early dark hair, dark eyes.

Good-looking?

Hawes could not remember.

"... is what I'm saying. He was sensitive marvelously understanding, and these are traits women naturally find appealing. But he was a you see?

And as such, he couldn't dwell on... matters of the flesh. He couldn't think of laimself as being attractive to women. And he ..certainly couldn't allow himself to be attracted to thena.”

"His sister thinks otherwise," Hawes said.

"Oh?" Krissie said.

"She seems positive her brother was having an .affair with someone.”

"Someone in the parish?”

"He didn't say, and she doesn't know.”

"I'm surprised," Krissie said. "Really.”

"You never saw any indication that he might have...”

"Not the slightest.”

"Even though there were calls and letters...”

"Well, from men too.”

"And visits...”

"Yes, from both men and women. St. Catherine's is a busy parish and he was a responsive pastor. I remember how surprised I was when I first began working there, the number of people he found time to see. His energy was.., well.., amazing. I don't think the man ever slept, really.”

"This was when?”

"When I started the job? The beginning of March, it was snowing I remember. I walked from the Subway stop to the church...”

... and had trouble finding the entrance. You Come in on the Culver Avenue side, you know, well, you've been there. The church is laid out like a all churches are, with the central portal altar. The rectory at St. Catherine's is on the we side of the church, you come through this arched door, and you go through the sacristy then into a wood-paneled corridor and into rectory. Father Michael's office is in a corner once was a part of the kitchen. In fact, there us be a wood-burning stove where the filing now are, against the southern wall.

It's funny, but Krissie feels as if she's auditioning for a part.

Maybe because there's another girl in the when she arrives. You go to a theater to try something, there're always a hundred other there. In the theater, of course, you call anyone the age of thirty a girl, but the girl in Michael's office on that blustery March really is a girl, thirteen years old if that, jeans and a grey sweatshirt, and yellow rubber boots, her long dark hair spilling down over her as she leans over the desk. He is saying, "You put in the ticket price, Gloria," it turns out discussing a big church dance that won't take till the beginning of June, and the beautiful little girl has designed the poster for it, and brought it for Father Michael to look at. "What do you it?”

he says to Krissie, lifting the poster off the and showing it to her.

She hasn't even told him who she is yet, said she's here about the part-time secretarial b, but immediately he's getting her involved in :h matters. She looks at the poster, which shows lot of young girls and boys dancing, and features fat black music notes floating on the air over eir heads, and balloon-type lettering that ounces The June Hop, to take place at St. "fine's Hall on Friday night, the first of June. is only the beginning of March, but Father ;hael likes to get his young people involved long advance of any planned event. "So?" he says, and at her... "He really did have a Gene Kelly smile...”

... and waits for her answer as if the entire future the Catholic Church depends upon it. The little girl- she's not truly little, she is in fact five feet six tall, but to Krissie she's only a little girl, , thirteen, whatever is also waiting for her decision, critics, critics everywhere. This is a first-night opening up here on North Eleventh Street, they're waiting for the reviewer from Channel 4 to express an opinion. Gloria, he'd called her Gloria, is a beautiful little girl, with a pale oval face and high bones, long black hair falling clean and to her shoulders, lips slightly parted, electric eyes opened wide in anticipation.

Krissie feels a sudden empathy for the girl, who sly drew the poster and who is now yearning y for the priest's approval, which may or not hinge upon what Krissie has to say about her effort. Krissie knows what it's like to be however, and she also knows what a "sell" can mean to a show, and so she expresses the that the poster really makes a person want to here and dance, at which point Gloria "Yippee!" or something equally adolescent throws her arms around Krissie and gives her a big hug.

Krissie is here for a job, remember. And beginning to think this isn't such a dignified impression, a teenager jumping up and down in arms and yelling when she hasn't even introduced herself. So she listens to Father Mi telling the girl that the poster is terrific except for price she forgot to put in, and the girl is excited by Krissie's rave review and the terrific Gene Kelly grin of approval and his Let's Put On A Show contagion that she's wetting her pants there in the office. But scoops up the poster and thanks Krissie again leaves the office all adolescent happiness and The handsome young priest shakes his head she's gone and says something about the kids in this parish, and finally, Krissie introduce herself and to tell him she's here job. And do you know what he says?

"He says, "Can you start today?' Just like Krissie said, and shook her head. "I guess he what happened there with Gloria, the way I myself with Gloria who, by the way, is a president of the C.Y.O., bright as can be, and tiful besides.”

“I know," Hawes said, "Carella told me.”

"The point is... well.., he was a fine, decent man, Look, I don't know his sister, I can't say she's telling the truth or not. But if she told he was.., involved with some woman... I mean, find that hard to believe.

That he was having an rir with some woman... I mean, I guess she said were sexually involved, didn't she?”

“Yes, he told her he'd violated his vows of :hastity.”

"With some woman.”

“Yes. A woman he said he loved.”

Krissie shook her head sadly.

"What a pity," she said. "That he couldn't work it out. If it was true.

That he loved this woman, and t work it out.”

“Yes," Hawes said.

Memorial day.

Just what Marilyn needed.

A national holiday.

The banks closed, her stockbroker's office closed, and two hoods from Argentina expecting answers at three-thirty this afternoon. She looked at her watch.

Five minutes past two. And ticking.

One of the men she'd known before she started Willis was an attorney named Charles Ingersol Endicott, Jr., a man in his late riffle carried as a holdover from his prep school nickname "Chip". as if life did not have burdens. She dialed his number now and wasn't out on a boat for the weekend; sailin Chip's passion. The phone rang four times, She was about to hang up when ... "Hello?”

“Chip?" she said. "It's me. Marilyn.”

She had not spoken to him in months wondered suddenly, and with an odd sense of whether he would even remember her. And voice boomed onto the line, deep and welcoming "Marilyn, my God, how are and she visualized at once the good friend whom she'd shared so many wonderful hours city where good friends and good men were "I'm fine, Chip, how are you, I hope interrupting anything," remembering his handsome face and intelligent brown eyes, a l thirty-one years older than she was, the father never known perhaps "Is something wrong?" he asked at once.

"No, no," she said, "I was just thinking about' and...”

She could not lie to him. He'd been too friend, and she hoped he was still a friend now. either way, she could not lie to someone who'd meant so much to her.

"I need advice," she said.

"Legal advice?”

"Not quite.”

"Okay," he said, but now he sounded puzzled.

"Chip... what do you think I could get for a cond mortgage on my house?”

"Why? What's the trouble?”

"No trouble. I need some money, is all.”

"How much money?”

"A lot. I wouldn't be bothering you with this, but the banks are closed today, and this is somewhat "nt.”

"You're alarming me, Marilyn.”

"I don't mean to. I'm simply trying to get an estimate...”

"How much did the house cost?”

All business now.

"Seven-fifty.”

"How much is the present mortgage?”

"Five hundred.”

"You could expect something like a hundred and thirty-five thousand.

That would be about eighty percent of the value.”

"How long would it take to get it?" she asked.

"Usually a full month. How soon do you need it?”

“Yesterday," she said.

"Marilyn, I don't want to know what this is, truly.

But if you need money, you don't have to go to a bank. I can lend you however much you want.”

"Thank you, Chip, but...”

"I'm serious.”

"Have got two million bucks lying aro you she asked, and thought it amazing that she coult smile.

There was a silence on the line.

"What is it?" he said.

"An old debt came up.”

"Gambling?”

"No.”

"Then what?”

"A former time, a former life.”

"Something you'd like to talk about?”

"No, Chip, I don't think so.”

“I can go to five hundred thousand," he said.”

me back whenever you can.”

"Chip...”

"No interest, no strings.”

"I couldn't.”

"You'll never know how much you meant to n he said. "Come to my office tomorrow, I'll arranl transfer of funds.”

"I can't, Chip. But thank you, anyway.”

"If you change your mind...”

"I don't think I will.”

"We were such good friends," he said sudde his voice catching.

"Yes," she said.

"I miss you, Marilyn.”

“I miss you, too," she said, and realized that meant it.

"Marilyn, I'm serious," he said. "If you want call me. It's here. And so am I. Call me, you? I'd like to talk to you every now and n. That's permitted, isn't it?”

"It is, Chip.”

“Good," he said. "Stay well, darling," and hung She lowered the receiver gently onto its cradle.

Her stockbroker was a man named Hadley Fields, there was no sense calling him at the office and she did not have his home number. She to the file cabinets in the study on the second .oor of the house, and from the file marked "TOCKS (she believed in generic labeling) she dug out the most recent statements. A glance at the last in the Market Value column showed that as of the last quarterly statement on March 31, the assets her account totaled $496,394. Of this total, $443,036 was invested in equities, and the remainder was a cash equivalent of a bit more than $50,000 invested in what was called a short term income fund paying 8.6% interest. She began going down the list of stocks she owned:

500 Abbott Laboratories, bought in June two years ago at $45.125 per share for a total cost of $22,793. Now worth $54.75 per share or $27,435 up almost $5000...

300 Walt Disney Co, bought at $57.00 a share in April two years ago, now worth $78.50 a share for a total increase of $6,270...

500 Morton Thiokol Inc, bought in February of last year at $40.625 per share, now selling $44.375 for a total gain of $1,657...

There were losers, too:

1,000 Republic New York Corp purchase, $46,058 a year and a half ago, now worth $44. for a loss of $1,308...

500 Sprague Technologies Inc. Purchased $7872, now worth $5812 for a loss of a bit more $2000...

but overall, the investments she'd made coming to this city had increased in value by than $60,000. Hadley Fields had been doing a job for her; she would not be selling at a loss. that it made any difference. The proceeds woult be going to her. They would be going Argentina.

Tomorrow morning, she would call Hadley advise him to sell everything she owned and to a wire transfer of the proceeds to her bank Meanwhile, she had to place another call to Russell.

The man Willis spoke to at the Identification Secfi office that Memorial Day afternoon was fluent/ Spanish, having been born of parents who'd ma their way to the city from Puerto Rico back in days when newcomers from that island were called Marine Tigers. This was because the ship thi had carried them to mainland America was called Tiger, Harold. Sergeant Miguel Florentino was called Mike by the rest of the staff. He ,d Willis to call him Mike now. This was nice of in that sergeants in this city outranked even detectives. Willis was but a mere third.

Morente looked over the records that had been by Vidoz, remarked as how the one named os Ortega was perhaps the ugliest human being :'d ever seen in his life (but perhaps it was a bad and then reeled off for Willis all the crimes a and Castaneda had committed in tandem over past twelve years. Willis, who'd already been .lied in by Portoles, listened politely but patiently. The list of crimes - Assault and Battery, Armed Robbery, Rape, Homicide and such only raised his anxiety level. These were the people Marilyn was dealing with. These were the ones who wanted money from her.

"What I'm really interested in, Mike," he said politely, "is whether or not we've got anything on them here.”

"In this city, do you mean?”

“Or even in this country," Willis said.

"These are common names," Morente said. "In Spanish. Very common.

Castaneda? Ortega? Very common. If you'd of given me something like Hoyas de Carranza, or Palomar de las Heras, or...”

"Yes, but these are their names," Willis said.

"Oh, sure. I'm only saying. The computer's gonna have a ball with these names. You're gonna have four thousand Ortegas the first time you wait and see.”

There were in fact only eighty-three lisl Ortega, Carlos, in the citywide Felony file, and forty-seven for Castaneda, Ramon. with the records from Buenos Aires, Morente knew the birth dates of both men, also had information concerning height, color of hair, color of eyes, scars, tattoos and which he punched into the computer as amazingly the odds had to be what, ten one? he came up with records for two men Carlos Ortega who had been born on the day and who seemed to be just as ugly as the Ortega who'd presumably followed Marilyn Argentina. There were no Ramon Castanedas pedigrees matched the handsome one in the "You better call B.A., ask them to Fed Ex good set of prints," Morente said. "'Cause I you right off, we're not gonna get a match fax, no way.”

"Any other way we can zero in?”

"Well, unless you're looking in prisons, you count this one out,” Morente said. "He's five-and-dime at Castleview.”

"How about the other one?”

"Carlos Ortega," Morente read out loud computer screen, and then turned to the faxed and said, "Carlos Ortega," and then kept head from screen to paper, like a spectator w tennis match, comparing records, speaking the hcts out loud, "forty-two years old, born October ifteenth," and said in an aside to Willis "Birth date of great men" but did not amplify, "six feet three inches tall, two hundred and sixty-five pounds, brown eyes, bald with black sideburns, this is some kind of miracle, broken nose, knife scar over the right eye, they sound like twins except your guy was born in Argentina and this guy in E1 Salvador.”

"How do their prison records match?”

"The only time your guy was out of jail, this guy was in.”

"So they could be one and the same.”

"If you conveniently forget E1 Salvador.”

"That could be a clerical error.”

"Sure, anything could be a clerical error.”

"How long has your guy been in America?”

Willis asked.

"Two years," Morente said, looking at the screen, and then turned to study the faxed record. "Just about when your guy got out of jail.”

"Why was your guy put away?”

"Dope.”

"Where is he now?”

"Out. Naturally.”

"Anything in my guy's record about dope?”

"Nothing. But here's his whole family history.

His uncle was a pimp, a guy named Alberto Hidalgo, got him started picking pockets when he was still a little...”

“A guy named what?”

Willis said, and rea for the fax.ii "Don't tear the fuckin' thing,” Morente said "Where does it say that?”

"Right here. That's what this means in S Living Off the Proceeds. And take a look at He's dead.”

"Ortega?”

"No, the uncle.”

Willis caught his breath. "Hidalgo. Got killed a few years back.

Cyanide.”

"Do they.., do they know who did it?" asked.

"Doesn't say. This is Ortega's record, uncle's.”

“His uncle," Willis said softly.

"Yeah. Is exactly what I said.”

Willis was silent for several moments.

said, "When did your guy get out of jail?”

"October.”

"Then it's at least possible.”

"That they're one and the same person? sure," Morente said. "But I wouldn't wanna bet farm on it.”

"Have you got an address for him?" Willis a *** It was the ugly one who called her at three-thir sharp.

Like the handsome one, he spoke only .1 ish. There was in his voice a scarcely contained he was forcing himself to be civilized. She w that he would never forget the humiliation she caused him to suffer. She knew that once she over the money they wanted, he would seek revenge, he would kill her. She did not yet know quite how she would deal with that. One step at a time, she told herself. But his voice was chilling.

"Do you have the money yet?" he asked.

"I forgot that today was a holiday," she said.

"Everything's closed.”

“When will you have it?" he asked.

"I'm sure I can get the five hundred tomorrow," she said. "Then I'll have to see what...”

“That is not two million," he said.

His voice was low. She felt he'd wanted to shout the words, but instead they came out softly, and were all the more terrifying: That is not two million.

Almost a whisper. That is not two million.

"I realize that," she said. "But you know, you're the ones who suggested cocaine...”

"Ustedes fueron los que sugerieron la cocaina...”

St. "So I was wondering... I'm sure you have contacts...”

INO.

"Because it would be so much.simpler if I turned...”

"No.”

"... over the five hundred...”

"No, that is not satisfactory.”

"... and then you could handle the business of.

"No. Five hundred is not two million.”

"Of course not. But I'm sure you understand..

Trying to appeal to his sense of fairness justice... "... how difficult it is for a woman to handle a trans...”

"You should have thought of that before killed my uncle.”

“What?" she said.

"Nada," he said.

"No, what did you... ?”

"When will you have the two million?" he Had he said his uncle ? Was that son of a uncle? Was that what this was all about? A family vendetta here? We'd like the two mill, sure, but there's also this matter of My Uncle Famous Pimp Hidalgo.

"I'm still trying to make contact with she said, "I told you, this is a holiday. But this is I'm suggesting. Once I set the deal up, why you and your friend...?”

"Are you dense?”

The word in Spanish was pesada. "thickheaded" or "obstinate." Qupesada eres.

"We suggested cocaine as a way out of problem. But the problem is yours, not ours. don't want to become involved in anything She almost burst out laughing.

"Do you understand what I'm telling you?" he id.

She understood perfectly. He didn't want to run my risks. She was the debtor, let her come up with e scratch.

"What if five hundred is all I can raise?" she said.

"You said you've already made contact with...”

“No, I said I'm trying to...”

"Then do what you have to do, and do it quickly!”

"I'm not in the habit of buying and selling dope.

"Miss?”

Only the single word.

Sehorita?

Loaded. About to explode.

"When will you have the money?”

Back to the point. No more bullshit. We're not interested in taking the five hundred and investing it dope or in hogbellies. The only negotiable aspect of this deal is time. When will you have the money?

"I don't know yet. If I can buy the stuff.., look, I simply don't know.

I've been trying to reach this "When will you know?”

"That's just it. Until I...”

"When?”

"If you could let me have till the end of the Week...”

"No.”

"Please. I'm trying to work this out, I really I could have till Friday...”

"Tomorrow.”

"I can't promise anything by tomorr...”

"Then Wednesday.”

"Can you make it Thursday?" she "Please?" Groveling to the son of a bitch. okay?”

“No later," he said, and hung up.

Today, citizens all over America had lined sidewalks of cities and towns, large and small watched the parades honoring their dead in wars.

Today, veterans of all ages had about their infantry platoons or their b squadrons or their minesweepers or their drops. This was Memorial Day. A day set pay tribute to the dead. A day, also, that si beginning of summer. The swimming pools outdoor tennis courts had been opened all America today, and all over America today promise of summer loomed large. For this twenty-eighth of May, and June was only four off and ready to bust out, summer was on the summer was in essence here this was Day.

The town was full of tourists.

This was Memorial Day, this was the s, beginning of summer, this was a time when "cans dredged up memories not of warfare and ,odshed, but of summers past.., the summer of a kiss, the summer of a lost love, the summer all lights went out, the summer of distant music, the of girls in yellow dresses, summer after urnmer floating past in hot recall, this was orial Day. The tourists came to the city not to either dead soldiers or dead summers.

came to celebrate the start of a season of corn the cob and boiled lobsters, gin and tonic, beer with foam. Summertime. High cotton and l-looking women.

Carella had read over his own reports on the Hooper and Corrente interviews, and there was no question but that the two were in absolute contradiction. It seemed to him that a third might be valuable, and he had gone to :the Hooper apartment specifically to talk to Seronia.

Her mother told him where he could find her. Her mother cleaned white people's houses and offices for a living. Got down on her hands and knees to scrub floors. Her daughter got down on her hands and knees to perform quite a different service.

Carella had not realized the girl was a hooker. That was the first shock.

"Arrest her," Mrs. Hooper told him. "On'y way she goan learn.”

The second shock was actually seeing her.

He found her all the way downtown, standing Under the marquee of a movie theater playing a pair of triple-X-rated porn flicks. She was we purple satin mini and a lavender satin blouse. beads on her neck. Yellow flower in her High-heeled purple leather pumps to match the. and blouse. One hand on her hip, the other cl a small purple leather purse. Lips pursed to air as strange men turned to look her over, words. She looked twenty-seven. She was "Want a date?" she asked Carella, and kis air as he approached, and then recognized him started to turn away, and realized it was too late anyplace, and stopped dead still, one hand hip.

"Whut's this?" she said.

"Few questions," he said.

"You goan bust me?”

"Should I?”

"No crime to stan' outside a movie show said.

"I agree," he said. "Can I buy you a coffee?”

“I'd p'fer some ice cream," she said.

They found an ice cream shop with tables in back. At the counter, fresh-faced black red-and-blue uniforms served up sugar cones and earned seven bucks an hour. table near the window, Carella watched Hooper eating a banana split with chocolate sauce, whipped cream, and a maraschino cherry, listened to her telling him that the girls behind counter were assholes.

"They cud make two hunn' id an hour," she said, was to get lucky.”

He figured she was talking fifty dollars a trick.

"I want to know what happened on Easter Sunday," he said.

"Nate tole you whut happen," Seronia said.

"I want to hear what he told you.”

"Same as he tole you.”

"I don't think so.”

"Look, man, whutchoo want fum me? Nate tole you the story, why'n't you go 'rest them cocksuckers busted his head?”

"Did your brother have a knife?”

"No. Who tole you he had a knife?”

"Did he go to Eleventh Street to sell crack?”

"Oh, man, doan make me laugh.”

"Is his street name Mr. Crack?”

"Where you hear all this shit, man?”

"Somebody's lying, Seronia. Either your brother or a kid named Bobby Corrente, who...”

"Oh, that sum 'bitch.”

"You know him?”

"I know him, all right. Was him swung the fust bat, you ass me.”

“Is that what your brother told you?”

"He tole me same as he tole you.”

"He didn't tell me it was Bobby Corrente who Swung the first bat. From the way he told it, the boys Who attacked him were strangers.”

"Then they was.”

"But you know Corrente, huh?”

Silence.

"Seronia? How come you know Corrente?”

"I seen him aroun' is all.”

"Where?”

"Aroun' .”

"What are you hiding?”

"Nuthin'. You know Corren'ee, you go 'rest He the one broke Nate's head.”

"How do you know that?”

"Jus' a guess is all.”

"Is that what your brother told you? That swung the first bat?”

"You go ass Nate.”

"I'm asking you.”

"I got no more time to waste here," Seronia and wiped her mouth on the paper napkin and preparing to get up from the table when asked, "How'd you like to waste some uptown?”

He felt no guilt whatever throwing muscle thirteen-year-old hooker.

"Waiting for the wagon to take you to Booking," he said, nailing the point home.

"Oh whut charge?" Seronia asked, su confident. "Anyway, my man get me out in half hour.”

"Good. Let's go then. I'm sure he'll love bail.”

"You think you bluffin' me?”

"Nope, I think I'm running you in on a Two-Thirty.”

"Nobody offered you no sexual conduct, man.”

"That's your word against mine," he said, and stood up. "Let's go.”

"Sit down," she said, "you makin' a fuss here.”

"Are we gonna talk about Easter Sunday or not?”

"They both lyin"" she said.

This is not Rashomon not quite.

The movie Rashomon, as Carella remembers it, was not about people lying.

It was about people sharing a single event but perceiving it separately and differently, so that each time the event was related, it had changed significantly. Listening to Seronia now, sitting with a thirteen-year-old hooker in an ice cream shop while she dug into her second banana split, aware that men thirty and forty years older than she is are eyeing her through the plate-glass window fronting the street, Carella begins wondering whether this version of the story, Seronia's version as related to her by Nate shortly after the incident occurred, is in fact the true version.

Or is she lying as well?

In the game of Murder, only the murderer is allowed to lie; all the other players must tell the truth.

But this is not the game of Murder, this is the death -of a human being who also happened to be a priest, and it appears now as if everyone is lying, if only what happened on Easter Sunday. And yet, there are areas where all three stories coinc" that it becomes increasingly more difficult who exactly was lying ... or is lying about aspect of the Eleventh Street happening.

Seronia admits, for example, that her bro street name is, in fact, Mr. Crack, and that been known to hang around the elementary on Ninth Street enticing the little kiddies to try of crack, a nickel a blow, this is not big kids who are ten, eleven years old. In this perhaps in every American city, kids are more often indulging in acts once exclusi reserved for adults. Seronia tells Carella presumably her line of work makes her an the subject that in the past three years, sex committed by boys in the twelve-tc year-old age bracket went up only percent, whereas sex crimes committed by under the age of twelve increased by two percent. Moreover, since the rapist usually someone weaker than he is, the female these new-age sex criminals ranged in age years old to seven.

In fact, Seronia feels she is a public service by engaging in sex with rapists who might otherwise be chasing teeny girls in the park.

But that is neither here nor there.

The point is that her brother, yes, is a dealer, But this does not make him a bad person. him a businessman filling a need in the ch as she is a businesswoman at thirteen, she rinks of herself as a woman, and why not, "considering her occupation - filling a similar need in a different but possibly related community. All of this communicated to Carella in English that is not quite Black English, but neither is it the Queen's Own.

And on Easter Sunday, as happened on every Sunday, rain or shine, Christmas, Yom Kippur or Ramadan, Nathan Hooper goes up town to Eleventh Street not to sell crack to the young wops gathered on their from stoops and freezing their asses off in their Easter finery, but instead to buy crack from his supplier, young Bobby Corrente... "Are you making this up?" Carella asked.

"Do I soun' like I'm makin' it up, man?”

She did not sound like she was making it up.

"Bobby discounts it 'cause of the volume," she said. "Figure...”

... you can buy a vial of crack for five bucks, but you've got to go hustling customers and that takes time and energy. Bobby sells it to Nate for four bucks a vial, but he does a hundred vials in a single shot and goes home with four bills without having to run all over town. Nate makes a buck on each vial he sells, so on the initial investmem of the four, he Comes away with an additional hundred, which is a twenty-five percent return on the dollar, much better than you can do on Wall Street.

On this particular Sunday in question, which happens to be Easter Sunday, Nate goes uptown three big ones in his pocket plus another twenties, intending to buy his usual hundred crack from his usual dealer, Mr. Robert Vi Corrente, in case you didn't know his full name.

something happens that changes the en complexion of the deal. What happens is that hands over the money, and is reaching for the bag with the vials of crack in it, same way business each and every time "An' by the way, this wun't on the front broad daylight, with all them silly wop girls an' watchin'. This is in the hallway.”

where Nate is reaching for the plastic when Bobby tells him to disappear, vanish, get nigger, words to that effect. Nate knows what it once, of course, but he pretends ignorance and Bobby spells it out for him. What it is (Oh, man, got to be kiddin' me, Nate goes) is that last when Nate made his usual buy, he paid for the with funny money (No, man, you makin' a man, I mean it) and so this Sunday, Bobby is the four bills, but he ain't giving Nate no dope he's telling Nate instead to go shove his bt his ass, he doesn't like doing business somebody who pays for merchandise with printed in the cellar.

Hey, no, man, come on, man, Nate is going, he knows Bobby's got him dead to rights, and figures this is the end of this relationship here, to look for a supplier somewhere else. But you buy dope without cash, and Bobby has the four in his pocket already, and the only thing faintly resembling convertible cash around here is the plastic bag full of crack. A hundred vials of it. So, since the relationship is over and done with, anyway, and since Nate is a very fast runner with a good sense of rhythm... "He grabs for the bag," Carella said.

"Is jus' whut he done," Seronia said... and starts running like hell, planning to get off I. Eleventh Street and stay off it till things cool down.

Bobby Corrente wants to find him, let him come onto black turf, where everybody got rhythm, man, and where your life ain't worth a nickel if you start up with a brother. Which is just about when Bobby hits him on the back of the head with a baseball bat.

The blow sends Nate flying forward, he almost loses his grip on the bag of crack, but he keeps running, knowing he ain't gonna make it back home now, knowing he's bleeding too bad to make it back home, but not wanting to quit now, not with these hundred vials of crack in his hands. And all of a sudden he spots the church up ahead.

He tries the door, and it's unlocked. He runs into the church, and locks the door behind him, twists this big brass key that's sticking out of the heavy lock, and he hears the wops outside, charging up the steps, and he figures first thing he has to do is stash the dope because the dope is what this is all about, the reason he has a broken head is the dope. And they're pounding on the door with their bats, throwing themselves against the door, and they've even got something they're using battering ram, Nate doesn't know. All he that the door's going to give, and he's got to hi dope.

And then he hears somebody arguing in the church, and he knows his time is he's got to hide that dope before whoever's comes out and finds him, or before that door in, which it does about three seconds after he the hundred vials.

"Where?" Carella said.

"I got no idea," Seronia said.

"But in the church someplace.”

"In the church someplace," she said. "D y'think that's funny? Nate turnin' the church stash pad?”

“Yes, very funny," Carella said. "What's the J of the story?”

"The rest is like he tole you. The pries' comes yellin' an' hollerin' an' somebody calls the cops then ever'body goes home an' the pries' takes to the hospital where they wrap his head in End of story.”

Not quite, Carella thought.

"You mine if I go now?" Seronia said. "I livin' to make.”