Выбрать главу

“What’ll it be?” the bartender asked.

“A little red wine, please,” Brother Anthony said. “Emma?”

“Gin on the rocks, a twist,” Emma said.

“See what the other lady will have,” Brother Anthony said, indicating the black-and-blonde hooker. He was feeling flush. His encounter with the ambitious pool hustler had netted him a $500 profit. He asked the bartender for some change, went to the jukebox, and selected an assortment of rock-and-roll tunes. He loved rock-and-roll. He especially loved rock-and-roll groups that dressed up on stage so you couldn’t recognize them later on the street. The black-and-blonde hooker was telling the bartender she wanted another scotch and soda. As Brother Anthony went back to his stool at the other end of the bar, she said, “Thanks, Brother Anthony.”

The bartender, who was also the Sandy who owned the place, wasn’t too happy to see Brother Anthony in here. He did not like having to replace plate glass mirrors every time Brother Anthony took it in his head to get insulted by something somebody said. Luckily, the only other person in here today, besides Brother Anthony and his fat broad, was the peroxided nigger at the end of the bar, and Brother Anthony had just bought her a drink, so maybe there’d be no trouble this afternoon. Sandy hoped so. This was Saturday. There’d be plenty of trouble here tonight, whether Sandy wanted it or not.

In this neighborhood, and especially on this street, Saturday night was never the loneliest night of the week, no matter what the song said. In this neighborhood, and especially on this street, nobody had to go lonely on a Saturday night, not if he had yesterday’s paycheck in his pocket. Along about 10:00 tonight, there’d be more hookers cruising this bar than there’d be rats rummaging in the empty lot next door, black hookers and white ones, blondes and brunettes and redheads, even some with pink hair or lavender hair, males and females and some who were AC/DC. Two by two they came, it took all kinds to make a world, into the ark they came, your garden variety scaly-legged $20-a-blowjob beasts or your slinky racehorses who thought they should be working downtown at a C-note an hour, it took all kinds to make a pleasant family neighborhood bar. Two by two they came and were welcomed by Sandy, who recognized that all those men drinking at the bar were here to sample the flesh and not the spirits, and who was anyway getting a piece of the action from each of the nocturnal ladies who were allowed to cruise here, his recompense (or so he told them) for having to pay off the cops on the beat and also their sergeant who dropped in every now and again. Actually, Sandy was ahead of the game, except when the weekend trouble assumed larger proportions than it normally did. He dreaded weekends, even though it was the weekends that made it possible for the bar to remain open on weekdays.

“This is on the house,” he said to Brother Anthony, hoping the bribe would keep him away from here tonight, and then suddenly panicking when he realized Brother Anthony might like the hospitality and might decide to return for more of it later.

“I pay for my own drinks,” Brother Anthony said, and fetched the roll of bills from the pouchlike pocket running across the front of his cassock, and peeled off one of the pool hustler’s tens, and put it on the bar.

“Even so...,” Sandy started, but Brother Anthony silently made the sign of the cross on the air, and Sandy figured who was he to argue with a messenger of God? He picked up the ten-spot, rang up the sale, and then put Brother Anthony’s change on the bar in front of him. At the end of the bar, the black hooker in the frizzy blonde wig lifted her glass and said, “Cheers, Brother Anthony.”

“Dominus vobiscum,” Brother Anthony said, lifting his own glass.

Emma put her fleshy hand on his knee.

“Did you hear anything else?” she whispered.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Did you?”

“Only that he had eleven bills in his wallet when he caught it.”

“Eleven bills,” Brother Anthony whispered.

“And also, it was a .38. The gun.”

“Who told you that?”

“I heard two cops talking in the diner.”

“A .38,” Brother Anthony said. “Eleven bills.”

“That’s the kind of bread I’m talking about,” Emma said. “That’s cocaine bread, my dear.”

Brother Anthony let his eyes slide sidelong down the bar, just to make sure neither the bartender nor the black hooker was tuning in. The bartender was leaning over the bar, in deep and whispered conversation with the hooker. His fingertips roamed the yoke front of her dress, brushing the cleft her cushiony breasts formed. Brother Anthony smiled.

“The death of that little schwanz has left a gap,” Emma said.

“Indeed,” Brother Anthony said.

“There are customers adrift in the night,” Emma said.

“Indeed,” Brother Anthony said again.

“It would be nice if we could fill that gap,” Emma said. “Inherit the trade, so to speak. Find out who the man was servicing, become their new candyman and candylady.”

“There’s people who might not like that,” Brother Anthony said.

“I don’t agree with you. I don’t think the little pisher was killed for his trade. No, my dear, I definitely disagree with you.”

“Then why?”

“Was he killed? My educated guess?”

“Please,” Brother Anthony said.

“Because he was a stupid little man who probably got stingy with one of his customers. That’s my guess, bro. But, ah, my dear, when we begin selling the nose dust it’ll be a different story. We will be sugar-sweet to everybody; we will be Mr. and Mrs. Nice.”

“How do we get the stuff to sell?” Brother Anthony asked.

“First things first,” Emma said. “First we get the customers, then we get the candy.”

“How many customers do you think he had?” Brother Anthony asked.

“Hundreds,” Emma said. “Maybe thousands. We are going to get rich, my dear. We are going to thank God every day of the week that somebody killed Paco Lopez.”

“Dominus vobiscum,” Brother Anthony said, and made the sign of the cross.

Timothy Moore came into the squadroom not ten minutes after a package of Sally Anderson’s effects was delivered by a patrolman from Midtown East. The accompanying note from Detective Levine mentioned that he had talked with the dead girl’s boyfriend and they ought to expect a visit from him. So here he was now, standing just outside the slatted rail divider and introducing himself to Genero, who immediately said, “That ain’t my case.”

“In here, sir,” Meyer said, signaling to Moore, who looked up, nodded, found the release catch on the inside of the gate, and let himself into the squadroom. He was a tall, angular young man with wheat-colored hair and dark brown eyes. The trench coat he was wearing seemed too lightweight for this kind of weather, but perhaps the long striped muffler around his neck and the rubber boots on his feet were some sort of compensation. His eyes were quite solemn behind the aviator eyeglasses he wore. He took Meyer’s offered hand and said, “Detective Carella?”

“I’m Detective Meyer. This is Detective Carella.”

“How do you do?” Carella said, rising from behind his desk and extending his hand. Moore was just a trifle taller than he was; their eyes met at almost the same level.

“Detective Levine at Midtown East—”

“Yes, sir.”

“Told me the case had been turned over to you.”

“That’s right,” Carella said.

“I went up there the minute I learned about Sally.”

“When was that, sir?”