'Listen, you don't happen to live here in the city, do you?' Lisa asked suddenly.
'Yes. Well, no, not downtown here. I live up in Riverhead. Why?'
'Just wondered,' she said.
'Because I thought if I have to stay in this hotel one more night, I'll go out of my mind,' Lisa said. 'I was coming up the stairs today, and I saw a guy shooting up right on the second-floor landing. I mean, can you imagine that? He's got the rubber tied around his arm, you know, and his vein is popping out, and he's got the needle poised and ready to go. Right on the staircase! And there were girls running around the halls in their underwear all last night, and strange guys prowling around and knocking on my door, I'm telling you this is some hotel. Which is why I asked if you live here in the city.'
'What do you mean?' Carella said, knowing full well what she meant, and hoping it was what she meant, and at the same time hoping it was not what she meant.
'Like I could go home with you,' she said simply, and shrugged.
'Well,' Carella said. His mouth was suddenly dry.
'I'm a very big girl,' she said, 'but I take up very little space, and I promise I'll stay on my side of the bed.' She came around to the front of the chair, dropped to her knees, looked up at him, and said, 'What do you think?'
In the meantime, Golden Girl, I want to get this to the Post Office before it closes. I'll try to write again tomorrow afternoon. Give my love to Choo-Choo. Tell him I hope his sickle is still as shiny bright as always.
Love and peace, Andy.
'Is it any help?' Lisa asked.
He looked down at her. She was still kneeling before him, sitting on her own heels. Her eyes were startlingly blue in the suntanned face.
'Well, actually, we know most of it already. It would have been extremely helpful a few days ago.'
'I didn't get it till Thursday.'
'Maybe you should have gone to the Los Angeles cops, after all.'
'Then I'd never have got to meet you,' she said, and smiled. She put her hand on his knee. 'What do you say? Will you take me home?'
'I'm married,' he said.
'So what?'
'I don't think my wife would appreciate my taking you home. Even if you did stay on your side of the bed.'
'I see your point,' she said, and smiled again, and he somehow got the idea that she'd been encouraged by what he'd just said. And then he wondered whether he'd been trying to encourage her, whether he actually was toying with the idea of taking blooming, bursting, youthful Lisa Knowles home with him - wherever home might be for the night.
'You wouldn't want to stay here, would you?' she asked.
'No,' he said.
'I didn't think so. There were rats running around all last night. One of them even got on the bed. I almost died. Not to mention what was running around in the halls outside. I'll pack,' she said, and got to her feet. 'It won't take me a minute. We can go someplace else. There are plenty of places in this city, aren't there?'
'Yes, there are plenty of places,' he said. 'Lisa,' he said, 'I'm married.'
'That's all right,' she said, 'I don't mind. We don't even have to do anything, if you don't want to. I like your face, that's all. I'd like to get to know you better.'
'And you'd also like to get out of this fleabag.'
'Yes, but that's a secondary consideration. Honestly. What's your name? I know you showed me your badge and told me your name, but I've forgotten it.'
'Carella. Steve Carella.'
'Steve,' she said. 'That's a good name. Is the "Carella" Italian or Spanish or what?'
'Italian.'
'That's nice,' she said. 'That's really nice. Okay? Shall we go someplace?'
'No, I don't think so, Lisa,' he said, and rose, and handed her the letter, and then reached into his pocket. From his wallet he took three twenty-dollar bills. 'Here,' he said.
'What's that?'
'It's enough to buy you a decent room, a good dinner, and a long-distance call to your parents.'
'I can't take money from you,' she said.
'It's a loan.'
'How would I pay you back?'
'I'll give you my address. Pack your bag, okay? I don't want you walking downstairs alone. You can get killed right in the lobby of this joint.' He suddenly grinned. 'I'm almost afraid of going downstairs myself. Here. Take it.'
'Thank you,' she said, and accepted the money. Quickly, and with great embarrassment, she stuffed the bills into the pocket of her jeans. Thank you,' she said again. 'But…'
'Yes?'
'Don't think I was… I mean…' She shrugged. 'I wasn't angling for the price of a hotel room, I mean it. I really would like to get to know you. And I've known married men before, so… I mean, that wouldn't have mattered. Not to me. But thanks for the money, anyway. I will send it back. Be sure to give me your address.'
'I will,' Carella said. 'Now let's get out of here before I change my mind.'
'I wish you would,' she said, and grinned.
'Not a chance,' he answered.
Nonetheless, he fidgeted uncomfortably all the while she packed, and he rushed her out of the room, and was not able to relax completely until he had put her into a taxi and given the cabbie the name of a small, inexpensive, but legit hotel on the South Side.
He watched the cab as it pulled away from the curb. Lisa wiped condensation from the rear window, and waved through the glass, and the taxi disappeared in a cloud of exhaust fumes.
Carella would not later say to Teddy, 'Hey, guess what, honey? A beautiful twenty-two-year-old blonde was flirting with me today, what do you think of that, honey?' Because, somehow, telling that to Teddy would amount to the same thing as having taken Lisa Knowles to bed.
And if he didn't need one stupid form of male ego-gratification, he sure as hell didn't need the other.
He felt okay.
Swiftly he walked to his automobile through the biting cold. It was beginning to snow.
At seven-thirty that Monday night, Detective Charlie Broughan of the 101st made an arrest on his way to work. The arrest was somewhat accidental.
Broughan had come out of the subway kiosk on Concord Avenue, five blocks from the station house, and was walking briskly through the light-falling snow, the pavement already a bit slippery underfoot. A boy and a girl were having what appeared to be a friendly argument on the sidewalk outside a record shop. The boy was wearing a white Swedish Army coat with the familiar insignia of the Death's Heads on it - the black gargoyle with its flaming red tongue. Broughan observed the coat and the insignia with an attitude of weary impatience. So far as he was concerned, there were only good guys and bad guys in the world. Broughan was a good guy, and anybody belonging to the Death's Heads (or any of the dumb gangs in this neighborhood) were bad guys. The boy and the girl were talking to each other in Spanish, their voices getting somewhat louder as Broughan approached. Broughan was not looking for trouble, nor was he expecting any. A cop on his way to work doesn't step into sidewalk arguments like Galahad on a white horse. He lets the people yell themselves out, and he continues walking to his office, where slightly more important matters are waiting - like the crazy bastard who was still cutting up prostitutes left and right all over the city, and who was still unidentified, and who only last night had changed his m.o. slightly by drowning a hooker in the bathtub of a downtown rathole called the Royal Arms.