The doorman had seen them now. He was walking toward the glass entrance doors, reaching for the long brass handle.
"Would you like to come up?" she asked.
"Good evening, Mrs. Bowles," the doorman said.
"For a cup of coffee or something?”
Sometime after midnight, the streets would begin to change. In the wink of an eye, what had at least appeared civilized would transmogrify into an alien landscape. But it was only twenty past eleven now, and the predators hadn't yet surfaced. The all-night deli around the corner from Clancy's was crowded with theatergoers, tourists, a few residents of the area, all of them enjoying a snack before toddling home to beddie-bye. Midnight was the witching hour.
No one looked up at the clock on the wall opposite the door, but anyone living in this city had an internal clock that told him when the slime would come bubbling up out of the sewers. Best to be home before then. Best not to be touched by that slime. So they chatted nonchalantly, and they ate and drank with gusto, but the internal clocks were ticking away, and all these people would be out of here by twelve-thirty, one-because after that you had to be crazy. Only Carmen Sanchez kept an eye on the clock. She had a show to do at midnight, and she had to be in costume and made up by then.
She ate as if she hadn't had a decent meal in a decade.
Big hot-pastrami sandwich on a seeded roll, packed with rich red meat and dripping mustard. Huge platter of French fries smothered in ketchup. Sliced sour pickles smelling of garlic and brine. Celery tonic in a bottle, straws sticking out of it. Just as if she'd been born Jewish. The cops were drinking coffee.
They watched her wolfing down the food. Meyer was wondering why she bothered getting out of her makeup when she only had to put it on again an hour later. Maybe she was shy, didn't want to be seen all dolled up in public. She didn't eat as if she was shy. She ate like the Russian Army.
"I'm positive the name was Bowles," she said, biting into the sandwich again, and then picking up a slice of pickle and biting into that and sipping at the celery tonic and popping a couple of fries into her mouth, a regular eating machine. Meyer watched her in wonder and awe.
"And there were only those two calls, is that right?" he said.
"Yes, that morning," she said.
"Well ... were there other calls?" Carella asked.
"Well, sure, the phone rings all the time,”
Carmen said. "What do you mean, were there other calls?”
"I mean for Tilly," he said. "Not necessarily that morning.”
"Sure. When he was there, he got calls.”
"How often was he there?”
"Now and then.”
"What my partner's asking ..." - Meyer started.
"I know what he's asking. The answer is no, we weren't living together, but yes, he came by every now and then.”
"To spend the night.”
"To spend the night, to spend a few days, whatever.”
"Did you know he'd served time in prison?”
"Yes. But that was a bullshit thing, he beat somebody up.”
"Hurt him pretty badly, from what we understand," Meyer said.
"Broke his nose ...”
"Both his arms ...”
"Sent him to the hospital ...”
"Still bullshit," Carmen said. "Anyway, there are people who go to jail, you know, who are just as decent as you or me.”
Neither of the detectives cared to argue this point.
Carella looked up at the clock. So did Meyer. There was no detaining her this time. She had a show to do, and she had to be out of here by twenty-to.
That was what she'd told them, and this time they'd honor it. It was now twenty-five past eleven.
Carmen looked up at the clock, too, which made three clock-watchers in a place oblivious to time except for the ticking of all the internal clocks.
"Would you remember any of those other calls?”
Carella asked. "The ones for Tilly?”
"Come on, guys, gimme a break, huh?”
Carmen said, and bit into the sandwich again. A blob of mustard oozed out from between the slices of bread.
"Oops," she said, and caught it with a paper napkin before it hit the tabletop.
"The night before, for example," Meyer said.
"Or anytime in the twenty-four hours preceding his death," Carella said.
"Any calls during that period.”
"Any names you might have heard him mention.”
They were still trying to put together a 24-24. The twenty-four hours preceding a homicide were important because if you could get a bead on what the victim had done, the people he'd seen, the places he'd visited, you might stumble across a murderer somewhere along the way. The twenty-four hours following the murder were important only because after that the trail got cold and the killer's edge widened. It was now five days since they'd found Tilly dangling from a basement pipe. And it was very cold outside.
Carmen was thinking.
"I got home late, you know ...”
"Yes.”
"Two o'clock or thereabouts. Roger may have been on the phone when I came in, I'm not sure.
He was still watching television, so maybe it was someone on the screen who was on the phone, you understand?”
"Uh-huh. How about the next morning? You said you woke up and had breakfast ...”
"Yeah.”
"And then went back to bed for a little while.”
"Yeah.”
"After which you heard Tilly on the phone with two different people. Once with a car dealer, and the next time with Bowles.”
"Right.”
"And he said he'd meet him downstairs ...”
"On the front stoop, right ...”
"Right, in half an hour.”
"But then Roger changed it to twelve sharp.”
"Which is when Tilly went downstairs,”
Meyer said.
"Yes. Well, a few minutes before. Five to twelve. Around then.”
"Okay. Were there any other calls that morning? While you were having breakfast, for example ...”
"No.”
"Or while you were in bed afterward. ...”
"No, just those two calls.”
"We know the first one was to a number listed to Arcade Motors. ...”
"I don't know the name of the ...”
"Well, we do. We checked with the phone company for any outgoing calls that morning or the night before. But the ...”
"I only heard the man's name. Mr.
Steinberg. I remember it because Roger had some other conversations with him. About the car he was looking at.”
"What kind of car was he buying?" Carella asked abruptly.
"A Mercedes.”
"M/'ve come into some money recently, huh?”
"We never discussed his business.”
"What was his business?”
"I just told you we never discussed it.”
"Then you don't know what it was, right?”
"I don't know what it was, right.”
"You wouldn't know if it was dope or not.”
"Is your partner deaf?" she asked Meyer.
"If I don't know what it was, how would I know if it was dope?”
"Expensive car like that," Carella said, and shrugged.
Meyer glanced at the clock. Time was running out. He knew why Carella was reluctant to drop the dope angle. If, in fact, Bowles had not come uptown to meet with Tilly, then it had to have been someone else who'd been waiting downstairs to introduce him to Mr.
Hi-Standard and his partner Mr. Snub. Buying an expensive motorcar tied in very nicely with selling dope. So Carella kept circling the dope possibility. Because if it wasn't Bowles and it wasn't dope, then it had to be a wild card. Something totally out of the blue, someone choosing a random victim, which nowadays happened more and more often. In which case, anybody in the whole damn city could have killed him. No wonder Carella was reluctant to let go of the dope angle. If dope was involved, there'd be people to talk to, paths to explore. In this city, dope always left a trail.