Well, most of them were bag brides. Sold themselves to feed their habits. Most of them, in fact, it was their pimps got them hooked. So they'd be like slaves to the nose candy or the chick or the bazooka, whatever shit they were on, and that was it. They didn't care what they had to do to get the money to pay for it, or in most instances the shit itself, supplied by Mr. Pimp, that's a good girl, here's your tecata, baby, go do yourself.
Still. . . how could these good-looking young girls, most of them — well, some of them - let this happen to themselves? Where along the line did they . . . you know . . .fall into this? How did it happen? Well, he wasn't a sociologist, he was a cop, and a cop had to ignore such poking and probing, appropriate terms when a person was considering the plight of the poor downtrodden
streetwalker, but that's the way it was, Charlie, and who gave a shit? Not me, Ollie thought. But still, he wondered.
He got his first lead to Melissa Summers from a black hooker who told him she'd spotted her Monday in Poison Park up on the Stem . . .
'Berrigan Square,' she said.
'What was she doing there?' Ollie asked.
'Chattin up the poison people, you know.'
'What do you mean, chatting them up?'
'Axin 'em diss an dat.'
'Like what?'
'Some a dem cotton shooters, they do anythin for bread, you know.'
Like you, Ollie thought, but didn't say.
'What was she asking them to do?'
'None of mah business.'
'What time was this?'
'Monday afternoon sometime.'
'Thanks, honey.'
'Doan "honey" me, Big Man. Juss lay a nice slice on me, you know whut I'm sayin?'
Ollie slipped her a double-dime.
CARELLA NEVER USED to worry about money.
Now he worried about money all the time.
Three in the morning, he was awake worrying about money. There used to be a time when he thought his salary was enough to satisfy all their needs. Well, not the base salary. But overtime boosted the base by a tidy little sum each year. Bought them anything they needed, everything, clothes, food on the table, vacations down by the shore, whatever. They never wanted for anything.
Then...
He didn't know how or why it happened, but all at once money seemed to be in scarce supply, to put it mildly. Maybe it was the kids growing up all of a sudden. April suddenly becoming a young lady before his very eyes, Mark growing at least two inches overnight, needing cell phones and laptops and zip sneakers and makeup kits and whatever else all the other kids in their class had. Almost thirteen years old. Seemed like yesterday the twins were born. Almost thirteen already, he could just imagine what it would be like when they were sixteen or seventeen, no money put aside yet for college, how'd he ever manage to get himself into such a tight financial situation?
Well, the wedding.
The wedd-ings.
Two of them.
He couldn't imagine what had possessed him to offer paying for them. Well, you couldn't let your mother pay for her own wedding, could you? Your father dead? You couldn't say, Gee, Mom, sorry, this one's on you, could you? You made your bed, Mom, now lie in it. What kind of son would that be? And if you offered to pay for hers, then you had to offer to pay for your sister's as well, didn't you? I mean, they were getting married together, it was going to be a double ceremony, two brides, two grooms, I do, I do, I do, I do. So if you were going to be a good son and pay for one of the weddings, then you had to be a good brother, too, didn't you, and pay for the other one as well? Why, of course! So Mr. Magnanimous, Mr. Generosity, Mr. Deep Pockets offered to pay for both. Gee, thanks, son. Thanks, bro.
Meanwhile, bro is broke. Sonny Boy, too.
Because Big-Hearted Bro, Loving Son and Benefactor,
turned down Mr. Luigi Fontero's subsequent offer to pay for at least part of the double-bash. Luigi Fontero, the Furniture Maker of Milan, Future Husband of the Widow Carella, I will vomit!
I will vomit because I still don't understand how my mother could be marrying this big . . . wop, yes, excuse me ... or how my sister could be marrying this . . . inept, yes . . . prosecutor who allowed Pop's murderer to . . .
Don't get me started.
Please.
I am broke.
I am awake at three in the morning.
And the double wedding will take place this Saturday at noon.
Sweet dreams, Big Shot.
HE WAS ASLEEP beside her, snoring like a bull, and she still hadn't found out what Adam needed to know. Yes, Jeremy Higel was a bodyguard. Adam already knew that, though not his name. And yes, he was protecting a violinist whose name was Konstantinos Sallas. Adam already knew that, too, name and all.
But the devil was in the details.
And details were what she needed.
What she figured she'd do was wake him up by playing with his dick — a very small one for such a large, hairy man — and then Deep Throat him, which would be a piece of cake, so to speak, in his case. Then, when he was close to imminent ejaculation, you should pardon the expression, she would start asking him questions which, if he didn't answer them, she'd leave him hanging here till next month at this time.
How does that sound, Jere?
Sounds good to me, she thought, and finger-walked the forefinger and middle finger of her right hand down his hairy chest and across his hairy belly and down into the wild bushiness of his crotch to discover at last, hidden there in the weedy black forest of his pubic hair, a weapon of mass destruction so formidable that it would have shocked and awed Bush, Blair, Cheney, Rumsfeld, and indeed the entire civilized world - all two and a half inches of it.
Wake up, Woolly Bear, she thought.
We've got some serious pillow-talking to do.
THE FIRST NOTE was delivered at eight-thirty that Wednesday morning.
Another junkie, ho-hum.
When they unfolded the single sheet of paper inside the envelope, the message fairly leaped off the page:
87
'Gee, looka that,' Genero said. 'That's us,' Parker deduced.
THE SECOND NOTE came at 9:30 that morning.
They didn't realize it as yet, but there would be a veritable parade of junkies today, one every hour or so. They questioned each new shabby messenger, hoping to pick up a fresh trail for Carmela Sammarone, but she seemed to be recruiting her people from all over town, wherever addicts congregated, which was virtually everywhere.
The second note read:
78
'That's us backwards,' Parker calculated.
He felt he was getting good at this.
'Backwards again,' Meyer said.
Carella searched for yesterday's notes, the ones that told them everything was going to be backwards from now on. He hadn't slept much the night before, and he had trouble finding them. In fact, he almost knocked over his second cup of coffee.
'Here we go,' he said at last, and displayed the two notes.
The first one read:
'Yea,' quoth he, 'dost thou fall upon thy face? Thou wilt fall backward when thou hast more wit
The second one read:
Why, you speak truth. I never yet saw man, How wise, how noble, young, how rarely featured, But she would spell him backward
'You know,' Willis said, 'there are many different meanings to the word backward. It doesn't necessarily have to mean "in reverse."'
'It specifically says "spell him backward"' Brown said.
'Yes, but that could mean cast a spell on him that would make him bashful or hesitant or shy. That's another meaning of backward.'
'He's certainly not bashful or hesitant,' Hawes said.
'Or shy, either,' Genero agreed.