'Yeah, Andy?'
'. . . is I heard some chick was handing out hundred-dollar bills
'Wish I knew a chick like that.'
'. . . for delivering letters, was what I heard.'
'Right,' Jonesy said.
Ollie didn't know whether the man thought he was shitting him or whether he knew something about Melissa Summers buying messengers. He waited. Nothing seemed to be forthcoming.
'Figured I might pick me up some change,' Ollie offered.
'Right,' Jonesy said again.
Ollie waited.
Traffic zipped by, horns honking, this city.
'You know who might know about that?' Jonesy said.
'Who?' Ollie asked.
Jonesy stood up abruptly. He swung one arm over his head, waved to a bench on the other side of the statue, and yelled out, 'Emma? C'mere a sec, okay?'
Which is how Ollie came face to face with the man who'd stolen his priceless manuscript.
'DO I REALLY have to read all this stuff?' Melissa asked.
He hated questions that did not require answers. Would he have gone to all the trouble of picking up a program and all these reviews if he hadn't wanted her to read them?
'It will familiarize you with what's about to come down,' he said, falling into the vernacular, but perhaps that was all she understood.
Melissa pulled a face.
She looked at her watch.
In twenty minutes, she would have to leave here for Grover Park, where she would watch the stationhouse from across the street, to make sure the last letter of the day was delivered by the Chosen Junkie of the Hour. Meanwhile . . .
The title page of the program read:
Three at Three
'An inadvertent palindrome,' the Deaf Man said. 'What's that?' 'A palindrome?'
'All of it.'
'Inadvertent means accidental. A palindrome is something that reads the same forwards or backwards. I doubt very much that the people who designed that program realized that "Three at Three" is a palindrome.'
'Oh. Yeah,' she said, her eyes widening. 'Three at Three! It is the same forwards or backwards.'
'Actually, a palindrome should read forwards or backwards letter by letter. "Three at Three" only partially qualifies. Then again, I'm sure its use was accidental.'
'So what's 'Three at Three'?'
'Three concerts at three o'clock.'
'Oh. Is this our Saturday concert?'
'The very one,' he said.
'Well, well,' she said, and opened the program.
There was a performance schedule and program for the first of the 'Three at Three' concerts, which had taken place last Saturday and Sunday. She turned several pages and found the schedule for this weekend's performances. First, there was a full-page picture of Konstantinos Sallas, the guest soloist. He appeared to be a man in his late thirties, clean-shaven, very solemn-looking as he peered at the camera past the curved neck of the violin he was holding in his left hand.
The following page offered a biography of the man. Melissa skimmed it. Born in 1969 — she'd guessed his age about right — began studying violin when he was six, continued his studies at the Greek Conservatory, and then Juilliard in New York, won an Onassis Foundation scholarship, made his concert debut in Athens when he was sixteen years old, won the International Sibelius Competition in Helsinki when he was seventeen, and won both the Pa-ganini International and the Munich International while he was still in his teens. Before his concert debut with the
London Symphony, he had also taken top prizes in the Hannover, Kreisler, and Sarasate violin competitions.
On the next page, there was a program of what would be performed at this weekend's 'Three at Three' concerts. The first half of the bill would be Beethoven's Violin Concerto in D Major, opus 61 . . .
'That's the one Sallas will be playing,' the Deaf Man explained.
The second half would be Brahms' Symphony No 4 in E Minor . . .
'Is he playing this one, too?' Melissa asked.
'No. Poor man would need a rest after the D Major.'
'So he's just playing that one thing, is that it?'
'That's it. A lovely piece. Starts with four timpani beats
'What's a timpani?'
'A kettle drum.'
'Oh.'
'Four soft timpani beats,' he said. 'Read the man's reviews, he's truly phenomenal.'
Melissa picked up the glossy sheet he'd handed her along with the program. She looked at her watch again. Sighing, she began reading.
'This wizard of the strings played Stravinsky's Violin Concerto and Ravel's Tzigane. His interpretations were humorous, fiery, and breathtaking . . .'
'Every sound that the extraordinary Sallas produced on his Stradivarius was like a shimmering crystal, which, against the heavy brass lines . . .'
'Konstantinos Sallas plays with consistent commitment, exquisite clarity and a thrilling
'It takes rare charm and brilliant execution for a solo violinist to hold the entranced attention of an entire
'Konstantinos Sallas brought singularly lustrous tonal
effects and colors to the Sibelius
'I get the picture,' Melissa said, and handed the program and the publicity sheet back to him.
'Anything else you get?' he asked.
'What?' she said.
'Look again,' he said, waving the program back at her.
She turned to the schedule for this Saturday and Sunday.
Konstantinos Sallas, solo violinist with the . . .
'Oh,' she said.
'Yes?'
'His name.'
... Sallas, solo violinist. . .
'Yes?'
'It's what you said before. A whatchamacallit.' Yes?'
'The letters,' she said. 'They spell the same thing forwards or backwards.'
... Sallas ...
'Sallas,' she said. 'His name.'
'Good girl,' he said, and wondered how many other people were beginning to catch on along about now.
'DON'TYOU SEE?' Carella said. 'It reads the same forwards or backwards.'
They were all clustered around his desk now, studying the Deaf Man's final note of the day.
1353+3531=4884
'That number looks familiar,' Willis said.
'It's the . . .'
'Right. The box number I tried to track down.'
'Doesn't exist,' Meyer said.
'But why's he taking us back there?' Eileen asked.
'Because he's leading us back to the beginning again,' Hawes said.
'Also, the size of the numbers is very definitely getting smaller,' Carella said. 'Here, take another look.'
They took another look:
87
78
87+78=165 165+561=726
1353+3531=4884
'Backwards, and smaller and smaller,' Carella said.
'So what the hell does that mean?' Parker asked, and looked at the clock, trying to figure how much longer this goddamn June the ninth was going to last.
FOR A MAN, Emilio Herrera was a damn good-looking woman.
In fact, the detectives up at the Eight-Eight whistled
when Ollie marched him into the squadroom.
'Sit down, Emilio,' he said, and indicated the chair alongside his desk.
'It's Emma,' Emilio said, and sat, crossing his long splendid legs. Five feet seven inches tall in his high heels, weighing a hundred and ten in his padded bra, fingernails painted a glittery gold to match his frizzed blond wig, he tugged at his short blue skirt and then pouted a moist red look at Ollie, who indifferently pulled a pad toward him, and began writing.
Emilio watched.
If he wasn't higher than a hot-air balloon, he'd have at least recognized Ollie's name. But he happened to be floating on some very good Red Chicken and so he didn't know this phat phuck from any other detective up here.
'My book,' Ollie said.
'Pretty,' Emilio said, thinking he was referring to the pad he'd been writing in, which he now saw carried his hand-lettered name across the top of one page.