“With Miss Anderson.”
“Lunch and then the theater,” Tina said. “It’s a matinee day, half-hour is one-thirty.” She planted her feet firmly, put her hands on her hips, and said again, “Where is she?”
“Dead,” Carella said, and watched her eyes.
Only suspicion showed there. Not shock, not sudden grief, only suspicion. She hesitated a moment, and then said, “You’re putting me on.”
“I wish I were.”
“What do you mean, dead?” Tina said. “I saw her only last night. Dead?”
“Her body was found at twelve-thirty A.M.,” Carella said.
Something came into the eyes now. Belief. And then belated shock. And then something like fear.
“Who did it?” she asked.
“We don’t know yet.”
“How? Where?”
“Outside the building here,” Carella said. “She was shot.”
“Shot?”
And suddenly she burst into tears. The detectives watched her. She fumbled in her shoulder bag for a tissue, wiped her eyes, began crying again, blew her nose, and continued crying. They watched her silently. They both felt huge and awkward in the presence of her tears.
“I’m sorry,” she said, and blew her nose again, and looked for an ashtray into which she could drop the crumpled tissue. She took another tissue from her bag, and dabbed at her eyes again. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled.
“How well did you know her?” Meyer asked gently.
“We’re very good...” She stopped, correcting herself, realizing she was talking about Sally Anderson as though she were still alive. “We were very good friends,” she said softly.
“How long had you known her?”
“Since Fatback.”
“Are you a dancer, too, Miss Wong?”
She nodded again.
“And you’d known her since the show opened?”
“Since we went into rehearsal. Even longer ago than that, in fact. From when we were auditioning. We met at the first audition.”
“When was that, Miss Wong?” Meyer asked.
“Last June.”
“And you’ve been good friends since.”
“She was my best friend.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe this.”
“You say you saw her only last night—”
“Yes.”
“Was there a performance last night?”
“Yes.”
“What time did the curtain come down?”
“About a quarter to eleven. We ran a little long last night. Joey — he’s our comic, I don’t know if you’re familiar with the show—”
“No,” Carella said.
“No,” Meyer said.
The girl looked surprised. She shrugged, dismissing their ignorance, and then said, “Joey Hart. He was bringing down the house in the second act, so he milked it for all it was worth. We ran fifteen minutes over.”
“The curtain usually comes down at ten-thirty, is that it?” Meyer asked.
“Give or take, either way. It varies. It depends on the house.”
“And is that the last time you saw Sally Anderson alive?”
“In the dressing room later,” Tina said.
“Who else was in the dressing room?”
“All the gypsies. The girls, anyway.”
“Gypsies?”
“The dancers in the chorus.”
“How many of them?”
“There are sixteen of us altogether. Boys and girls. Eight of us were in the girls’ dressing room. Five blondes, two blacks, and a token Chink — me.” She paused. “Jamie digs blondes.”
“Jamie?”
“Our choreographer. Jamie Atkins.”
“So you were in the dressing room—”
“All eight of us. Taking off our makeup, getting out of our costumes... like that.”
“What time did you leave the dressing room, Miss Wong?”
“I got out as fast as I could.” She paused. “I had a date.”
“Who was in the dressing room when you left?” Meyer asked.
“Just Sally and Molly.”
“Molly?”
“Maguire.” She paused. “She changed her name. It used to be Molly Materasso, which isn’t too terrific for the stage, am I right?” Carella guessed it was not too terrific for the stage. “In fact, it means ‘mattress.’ ” Carella knew it meant mattress. “In fact, that was her maiden name. She’s married now, and her real name is Molly Boyd, but she still uses Molly Maguire on the stage. It’s a good name. Because of the Molly Maguires, you know.” Carella looked at her blankly. “It was a secret society in Ireland. In the 1840s,” she said. Carella was still looking at her blankly. “And later in Pennsylvania,” she said. “Anyway, you hear the name, you think you know her from someplace. The name gets her lots of jobs because directors and producers think, ‘Hey, Molly Maguire, sure, I know her.’ Actually, she’s a pretty lousy dancer.”
“But she was there alone in the dressing room with Sally when you left,” Meyer said.
“Yes.”
“What time was that?”
“About five after eleven.”
“What were they talking about, do you know?”
“It was Molly who was doing all the talking.”
“About what?”
“Geoffrey. Her husband. That’s why I got out of there as fast as I could. Actually, I wasn’t supposed to meet my date till midnight.”
“I don’t understand,” Meyer said.
“Well, Molly keeps bitching about her husband, and it gets to be a drag. I wish she’d either shut up, or else divorce him.”
“Uh-huh,” Meyer said.
“And that’s the last time you saw her, right?” Carella said.
“Yeah, right. I still can’t believe this. I mean... God! We had a cup of coffee together just before half-hour last night.”
“What’d you talk about then, Miss Wong?”
“Girl talk,” Tina said, and shrugged.
“Men?” Carella said.
“Of course men,” Tina said, and shrugged again.
“Was she living with anybody?” Meyer asked.
“Not in that sense.”
“What sense is that?”
“Most of her clothes were here, most of his were there.”
“Whose clothes?” Carella asked.
“Timmy’s.”
“Is he a boyfriend or something?” Meyer asked.
“Or something,” Tina said.
“Timmy what?” Carella asked.
“Moore.”
“Is the Timmy for Timothy?”
“I think so.”
“Timothy Moore,” Meyer said, writing the name into his notebook. “Do you know where he lives?”
“Downtown, just outside the Quarter. He’s a med student at Ramsey U. His apartment is near the school someplace.”
“You wouldn’t know the address, would you?”
“I’m sorry,” Tina said.
“When you say ‘or something’...,” Carella said.
“Well, they were sort of on-again off-again.”
“But they were romantically involved?”
“Do you mean were they sleeping together?”
“Yes, that’s what I mean.”
“Yes, they were sleeping together,” Tina said. “Isn’t everybody?”
“I suppose,” Carella said. “Did she ever mention a man named Paco Lopez?”
“No. Who’s Paco Lopez? Is he in show business?”
Carella hesitated a moment, and then said, “Was Sally doing drugs?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Never mentioned drugs to you?”
“Are you talking about a little pot every now and then, or what?”
“I’m talking about the hard stuff. Heroin,” he said, and paused. “Cocaine,” he said, and watched her closely.