that's entirely his business, isn't it? You think I like the name "Cotton"?' he asked, gathering steam. 'How would you like to go through life with the name "Cotton"? Or "Hawes," for that matter. You know how many times I was called "Horse" when I was a kid? You know how many times I've been tempted to change it? Cotton Hawes? So who cares what Augusta's real name was? Anyway, you don't mean her real name, do you? Because the minute she changed it, her real name became Blair, didn't it? You mean her birth name, don't you? Isn't that what you mean?'
'I guess so,' Kling said, sorry he'd brought up the entire matter.
'Because Augusta Blair is her real name now,' Hawes insisted. 'Whatever it used to be. Bludge, Shmudge, who cares?'
'I guess so,' Kling agreed. 'She even kept Blair when we got married.'
'Bludge, who'da thought? What is that, German? She looks so Irish. I mean that red hair
Auburn, actually.'
'Who'da thought?' Hawes said, and moved some more fries around on his plate.
Anyway, I don't think they're related,' Kling said. 'Her and Honey. If that's what you wanted to ask.'
'Unless Honey's real name,' Hawes said, landing hard on the real to make his point yet another time, 'was Henrietta Bludge or something.'
'Yes, in which case, they might be sisters,' Kling said.
'Or cousins,' Hawes said.
'Small world, sure,' Kling said.
Both men fell silent.
'But what I wanted to know,' Hawes said, and moved another fry, 'is what it was like being married to a celebrity.'
'Well, we're divorced now,' Kling said. 'I guess that tells you what it was like.'
'I meant, the celebrity part. Cause Honey's something of a celebrity herself, you know. Not like Augusta, I mean she's on the cover of every fashion magazine you pick up. But lots of people watch Honey on the news . . .'
'Oh, sure.'
'So I was wondering ... I mean, I'm just a cop, we're both just cops . . .'
'I know what you mean, yes.'
"... and these two women make a lot more money than we do . . .'
'Yes.'
'. . . and are a hell of a lot better-looking than we are . . .'
'That's for sure.'
'So I wonder ... I can't help wondering ... I mean ... is it going to work? I know it didn't work for you, Bert
'No, it didn't,' Kling said.
Neither of the men mentioned what was common knowledge in the squadroom: Kling had caught his wife in bed with another man.
'What I want to know . . . should I talk it over with Honey? The possible . . . you know . . . problems that may come up?'
'It's always best to talk it over,' Kling said.
Same advice Carella had given him a long time ago, when Kling first began to realize there might be trouble in Paradise.
But, of course, talking it over hadn't helped a damn bit.
That hot summer.
The heat that summer.
'Let her know how you feel,' Kling said, and looked up at the clock again.
'You got a taxi waiting?' Hawes asked.
'No, it's just I have to talk to this guy whose pawn shop was held up.'
Hawes looked at his own watch.
'Tell her it bothers me, huh?' he asked. 'Her being a celebrity?'
'Sure. If it really bothers you, sure. Talk it over.'
'Well, actually that's not what's really bothering me, exactly.'
'Then what is?'
'I just get the feeling ... ah, forget it. I'm being a cop, that's all.'
'What is it, Cotton?'
'I get the feeling she's not being completely honest with me.'
'Uh-huh.'
'Holding something back, you know?'
Join the club, Kling thought.
'So discuss it with her,' he said.
'You think so, huh?'
'I think so,' Kling said, and looked up at the clock again. 'We'd better get a check, I don't want to be late. I told the guy two-thirty.'
Hawes signaled to the waitress.
'Where you headed, anyway?' he asked.
'1214 Haskell,' Kling said.
But he wasn't.
SHARYN WAS WAITING outside her office building in Diamondback.
The address was 3415 Ainsley Avenue, and she wasn't waiting for Kling.
He had checked her appointment calendar last night.
For today, June the eighth, she had written in Jamie.
And below that: My office. 2:30 p.m.
He had supposed, or hoped, that the two of them would be meeting for some sort of medical consultation, in her actual office upstairs, her space. But it was now two thirty-five, and here was Sharyn standing outside her building, and up the street came Dr. James Melvin Hudson, wearing a neatly tailored gray suit this time, white shirt, dark tie. Nodding in greeting, he leaned down to kiss her on the cheek, as was apparently the custom between medical folk these days. Sublimely unaware of Kling's presence, they went ambling up the street together.
He followed behind at a discreet distance, the police term for keeping tabs on your girlfriend.
Or your significant other.
Or your lover.
Or whatever.
What goes around comes around, he thought.
They were going around the corner, he quickened his step, didn't want to lose them. Rounded the corner after them, almost bumped right into them, turned quickly away to avoid discovery. They were some ten feet ahead, checking out the lettering on a plate-glass window.
Ye Olde Tea Room.
Ye what? Kling thought.
He didn't know they even had tea rooms in America, old or otherwise. In the heart of Diamondback, no less. Would wonders never? He hung back while they entered the place, two innocent colleagues out for their early afternoon tea, pip pip and all that. As soon as they were
clear, he approached the plate-glass window, put his face to it, hands cupped on either side of his head, alongside his eyes, and peered inside.
They were approaching a table on the right, a small table against the wall, under a sconce that cast scant light onto the woman already sitting there.
A white woman.
The moment they sat, one on either side of her, the woman reached for their hands. Sharyn's right hand, Dr. James Melvin Hudson's left. A hand in each of her own. She gripped their hands tightly, and then burst into tears.
Kling wondered what the hell he had stumbled into here.
IT BOTHERED OLLIE that none of the credit card companies could help him on this thing. All he wanted was a damn name and address for the guy who'd picked up Melissa Summers - or vice versa - in the Olympia Hotel bar last Wednesday night, the second day of June. Now was that a big deal to ask?
Well, yes, they explained, it was a very big deal to ask. Because lacking the name of the card holder, it would be impossible to scan the thousands of purchases . . .
'This wasn't a purchase,' Ollie told each and every one of them, American Express, Visa, MasterCard, even Discover. 'This was a guy paying for drinks in a bar
Yes, well, whatever it was . . .
'A particular bar,' he explained to one and all, 'at a specific time. All you got to do is kick in your computer and zero in on the Olympia Hotel bar at eleven o'clock last Wednesday night, and bingo, we've got our customer, ah yes.'
But, ah no, they explained, that isn't the way it works, our computers aren't programmed that way. If you had the card holder's name . . .
'The card holder's name is what I'm looking for!'
And round and round the mulberry bush, but no cigar.
Ollie figured he'd have to hit the whores again.