“Want to tell me what your relationship is?”
“You know what it is, let’s just cut the crap, okay?”
“Fine. Did you also know Clara Jean Hawkins?”
“Yes, I knew her.”
“When did you last see her alive?”
“The morning of the day she caught it.”
“Last Friday morning?”
Nancy nodded.
“Where?”
“The apartment.”
“Where’s that?”
“Joey’ll kill me,” she said.
“Where’s the apartment?”
“On Laramie and German.”
“But you say he’s not there now?”
“No, he split on Sunday, soon as he heard about C.J.”
“Why’d he split?”
“He’s afraid you’ll hang it on him.”
“Did he tell you that?”
“He didn’t tell us nothing. He just split. I’m guessing, is all.”
“Who do you mean by us?”
“Me and the other girls.”
“How many of you?”
“Four, when C.J. was alive. Three of us now.” She shrugged. “That’s if Joey ever comes back.”
“Do you think he will?”
“If he didn’t kill C.J.”
“Do you think he killed her?”
Nancy shrugged.
“The Cowboy told me you’re scared of him. Is it because you think he killed her?”
“I don’t know what he did.”
“Then why are you scared of him?”
She shrugged again.
“You do think he killed her, don’t you?”
“I think he had reason to kill her.”
“What reason?”
“The moonlighting.”
“What do you mean?”
“She was cheating on him.”
“To the tune of two hundred bucks a week, am I right?” Carella said.
“I don’t know how much her little party was bringin in each week.”
“What kind of party? Did she tell you?”
“Some kind of beach party,” Nancy said, and shrugged.
“Every week?”
“Every Wednesday. She went out there in the morning—”
“Out where?”
“The beach someplace.”
“Which beach?”
“Out on Sands Spit someplace.”
“Which beach there?”
“I don’t know.”
“How’d she get there?”
“Took a train. And then whoever it was picked her up with a car.”
“Out there on Sands Spit?”
“Yeah, out there at the beach someplace.”
“And you think Joey found out about this?”
“If he killed her, then it was because he found out.”
“How would he have found out?”
“Well, I didn’t tell him, and C.J. sure as shit wouldn’t have.”
“Then who did?”
“Maybe Sarah.”
“Who’s Sarah?”
“One of the other girls. Sarah Wyatt. She’s new, she still digs him a lot. Maybe she’s the one told him.”
“Did C.J. mention it to her?”
“C.J. had a big mouth,” Nancy said, nodding.
“How about the other girl? The third one?”
“Lakie?”
“Is that her name?”
“That’s her trade name, she’s from up around the Great Lakes someplace, Joey tagged her with Lakie.”
“Did she know about C.J.’s moonlighting?”
“I don’t think so. They didn’t get along much. Lakie’s kind of snooty, thinks she’s got a golden snatch, you know what I mean? C.J. didn’t go for that.”
“But she told the two of you.”
“Well, yeah.”
“Why do you suppose she got so careless?”
“Maybe she was ready to cut out, and just didn’t give a shit anymore.”
“Shouldn’t she have recognized the danger of—”
“She should have. Joey’s a mean son of a bitch.”
“Does he own a gun?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve seen it?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of gun?”
“I don’t know guns. He’s got a permit for it.”
“A permit? How’d he swing that?”
“His cousin owns a jewelry store up in Diamondback. Joey got him to say he worked for him delivering diamonds and shit. So he got the permit.”
“What’s the cousin’s name?”
“I don’t know. Some spic name, like Joey’s.”
“Where in Diamondback?”
“The jewelry store? I don’t know.”
“Does the cousin live up there?”
“I think so. He’s married and has a hundred kids like all the other fuckin spics in this city.”
The Gaucho cleared his throat.
“Not you, Cowboy,” Nancy said. “You’re different.”
The Gaucho seemed unconvinced.
“Will you be going back to that apartment downtown?” Carella asked.
“I don’t know, I’m sort of scared to. But like... where else would I go?”
“If Joey shows up there, pick up the phone and call this number,” Carella said, writing.
“Sure, and he’ll break my arm,” Nancy said.
“Suit yourself,” Carella said, and handed her the card on which he’d written the precinct’s phone number. “If he killed C.J., though...”
“Sure,” Nancy said, nibbling at the inside of her mouth, “What’s a broken arm by comparison, right?”
A call to Pistol Permits revealed that José Luis La Paz had indeed been issued a Carry Permit on the third day of May, which was about the time he’d gone into business procuring young ladies for gentlemen of good taste. The license application stated as his reason for needing a pistol the fact that he delivered precious gems as part of his job with Corrosco Jewelers at 1727 Cabot Street. The proprietor of the shop, who had signed his name to the confirming affidavit, was Eugene Corrosco. Carella thanked the man at Pistol Permits, looked up “Corrosco Jewelers” in the Isola yellow pages, and immediately dialed the store. A man speaking with a heavy Spanish accent told Carella that Eugene Corrosco was away on vacation. Carella asked when Mr. Corrosco would be back, but the man didn’t know. Carella thanked him, looked up “Corrosco, Eugene” in the white pages, and got a woman who said she was Mrs. Corrosco. She didn’t know where her husband was, or when he would be back. Belatedly, she asked who was calling.
“This is Marty Rosen,” Carella said. “I talked to him last week about some very nice sapphires, he said to give him a call.”
“Well, Mr. Rosen, he ain’t here,” the woman said.
“And you don’t know when he’ll be back, huh?” Carella said.
“No, I don’t know.”
“Cause I’ll be going back to Chicago, you know, on Friday.”
“I’m sorry,” the woman said.
“Yeah, thanks anyway,” Carella said, and hung up.
He opened the top drawer of his desk, and pulled out the police map that divided the city into precincts. 1727 Cabot Street was smack in the middle of the Eight-Three, uptown in Diamondback.
The Eight-Three meant only one thing: Fat Ollie Weeks.
Stubby hand extended, shirt collar open, tie pulled down, sleeves rolled up over massive forearms, Fat Ollie Weeks came waddling across the squadroom of the 83rd Precinct to greet Carella and Meyer where they stood just outside the slatted rail divider. Both men were wearing sodden raincoats. Meyer was wearing his Professor Higgins hat, but Carella was hatless and even the short run from the car to the station house had left his hair looking like a tangle of brown seaweed.
“Hey, you guys, jeez,” Ollie said, and gripped Carella’s hand. “I ain’t seen you guys in a dog’s age, ever since Kling had his bride stole right out from under him! Jeez, how the hell are you, I been meanin to call you. You brought ole Kosher Salami with you, huh?” he said, gripping Meyer’s hand. “How’s old Oscar-Mayer Kosher Salami doin, huh?” he said, and burst out laughing.