“Across the tits,” Matson said.
“Nice little Jennifers,” Manson said.
“I never heard that expression before,” Matson said.
“Jennifers? It’s a common expression.”
“I never heard it in my life. Jennifers? That’s supposed to be tits, Jennifers?”
“Where I grew up, everybody called them Jennifers,” Manson said, offended.
“Where the fuck was that?” Ollie said.
“Calm’s Point,” Manson said.
“Figures,” Matson said, and shook his head.
“You might want to cross-check on the other two,” the M.E. suggested.
“She’s got two more?” Manson said, attempting a bit of humor after the put-down following his use of the word “Jennifers” that when he was growing up was a common word used to define tits, even big tits — well, no, those were Jemimas.
“The other two victims,” the M.E. said.
“You guys want this?” the black patrolman said, walking over.
Meyer was sitting at his desk, wearing his wig and typing. The wig kept slipping a little, which made him look devil-may-care. He saw a huge bulk standing outside the slatted railing that separated the squadroom from the corridor outside. For a moment, he thought it was Fat Ollie Weeks. He blinked. It was Fat Ollie Weeks. Meyer immediately felt like taking a shower. Weeks usually smelled like a cesspool, and anyone standing close to him wondered why he did not draw flies. Weeks also was a bigot. Meyer didn’t need him in the squadroom today. He didn’t need him in the squadroom ever. But here he was, as big as Buddha, at 10:00 in the morning.
“Anybody home?” he said from the railing, and then opened the gate and walked in. Meyer was alone in the squadroom. He said nothing. He watched Ollie as he approached the desk. Little pig eyes in a round pig face. Fat belly bulging over the belt of his trousers. Wrinkled sports jacket that looked as if it had been slept in for a week. Big Fat Ollie Weeks floating toward the desk like a barrage balloon.
“Detective Weeks,” he said, flashing his buzzer. “The Eight-Three.”
“No kidding?” Meyer said. What the hell was this? Ollie knew him, they had worked together before.
“I been up here before,” Ollie said.
“Oh, really?” Meyer said.
“Yeah, I know all the guys up here,” Ollie said. “Used to be a little bald Jewish person working up here.”
Meyer did not mind being called “bald” (not much, he didn’t) which was what he was when he wasn’t wearing his wig, nor did he mind being called a “Jewish person,” which was also what he was, but at a bit more than six feet tall he did not think he was “little,” and anyway when Ollie put all the words together as “a little bald Jewish person,” they sounded like a slur.
“I am that little bald Jewish person,” he said, “and cut the crap, Ollie.”
Ollie’s little pig eyes opened wide. “Meyer?” he said. “Is that you? I’ll be damned!” He began circling the desk, studying Meyer’s hairpiece. “It’s very becoming,” he said. “You don’t look Jewish no more.”
Meyer said nothing. I need him, he thought. I really need him.
“I’ve been meaning to call you,” Ollie said.
I’m glad you didn’t, Meyer thought.
“Didn’t some guy write a book using your name in it one time?”
“Some lady,” Meyer said.
“Used the name Meyer Meyer for a person in her book, right?” Ollie said.
“A character in the book,” Meyer said.
“That’s even worse,” Ollie said. “Reason I mention it — you familiar with ‘Hill Street Blues’? It’s a television show.”
“I’m familiar with it,” Meyer said.
“I caught a rerun last week musta been. They had a guy on it I think they stole from me.”
“What do you mean, stole from you?”
“This cop. A narc cop...”
“You’re not a narc cop, Ollie.”
“Don’t I know what I am? But I been on narcotics cases, same as you. First time I met you guys was on a narcotics case, in fact. Some guys smuggling shit inside little wooden animals, remember? That was the first time I worked with you guys up here.”
“I remember,” Meyer said.
“That was before ‘Hill Street Blues’ was even a dream in anybody’s head.”
“So what’s the point, Ollie?”
“The point is this guy’s name was Charlie Weeks. On the show. Charlie, not Ollie. But that’s pretty close, don’t you think? Charlie and Ollie. With the same last name? Weeks? I think that’s very close, Meyer.”
“I still don’t see...”
“This other guy — they got a Jewish person on the show, too, his name is Goldblume, one of your paisans, huh? This guy Goldblume, he’s telling the boss up there, this Furillo, that Weeks is trigger-happy... especially when the target is black. What Weeks says at one point is, ‘Freeze, niggers, or I’ll blow your heads off.’ Also, he manhandles suspects. I mean, he’s a regular shithead, this Charlie Weeks.”
“So?”
“So am I a shithead?” Ollie asked. “Is Ollie Weeks a shithead? Is Ollie Weeks the kind of cop who goes around mistreating suspects?”
Meyer said nothing.
“Is Ollie Weeks the kind of cop who has anything but respect for niggers?”
Meyer still said nothing.
“What I’m thinking of doing,” Ollie said, “is suing the company makes ‘Hill Street Blues.’ For putting a cop on television has a name sounds exactly like mine and who’s a prejudiced person goes around shooting niggers and roughing up guys he’s interrogating. That kind of shit can give a real cop a bad name, never mind they call him Charlie Weeks on their fuckin’ T.V. show.”
“I think you have a case,” Meyer said flatly.
“Did you sue that time?”
“Rollie advised me against it. Rollie Chabrier. In the D.A.’s Office.”
“Yeah, I know him,” Ollie said. “He told you not to, huh?”
“He said I should be flattered.”
“Yeah, well, I ain’t so fuckin’ flattered,” Ollie said. “There’s such a thing as goin’ too far, am I right or am I right? Matter of fact, I been meanin’ to talk to Carella up here, ’cause I think he’s got a case, too.”
“How do you figure that?”
“Well, don’t Furillo sound a lot like Carella to you? I mean, how many wop names are there in this world that got three vowels and four condiments in them, and two of those condiments happen to be the same in both names? Two l’s, Meyer! Carella and Furillo, those names sound a whole lot alike to me, like Charlie Weeks and Ollie Weeks. Does Carella wear a vest all the time?”
“Only when he’s expecting a shootout,” Meyer said.
“No, I mean a regular vest, like from a suit, a suit vest. ’Cause this guy Carillo... Furillo, I mean... he’s always wearing a vest. I think Carella oughta look into it.”
“Wearing a vest, you mean?”
“No, the similarity of the names, I mean. You think those guys out there ever heard of us?”
“What guys?”
“The ones out in California who are putting together that T.V. show and winning all the Emmys. You think they ever heard of Steve Carella and Ollie Weeks?”
“Probably not,” Meyer said.
“I mean, we ain’t exactly famous, either one of us,” Ollie said, “but we been around a long time, man. A long fuckin’ time. To me, it ain’t a coincidence.”