Lullaby

Carella waited.

But Ollie hadn't intended the question rhetorically.

'Do you see how peculiar that was?' he repeated.

'Yes,' Carella said. 'Very peculiar.'

'I mean, she is riding me bareback like a fuckin' Indian on a pony and she wants to know why the cops are lookin' for Proctor, who I don't know from a hole in the wall'

'So?'

'So I get outa bed afterward, and I go wipe my dick on the drapes . . . do you know that joke?'

'No.'

'It's what a Jewish guy does to get his wife excited after he comes. He wipes his dick on the drapes, you get it? To get his wife excited. Because Jewish girls . . .'

'I get it,' Carella said.

'I didn't really wipe my dick on the drapes,' Ollie said. 'I mean, I know I'm a fuckin' slob but I'm not that big a slob.'

'What did you use?' Carella asked. 'Your tie?'

'That's very funny,' Ollie said, but he didn't laugh. 'Anyway, while she's squatting over a basin rinsing herself out, she tells me this friend of hers is a friend of Proctor's, and he was wonderin' why the cops were snoopin' around Proctor's old address, lookin' for him. And if I knew anything about it, she would appreciate it if I would tell her, seeing as we were old friends and all. So she could pass the information on to her friend. Who I guess, but she didn't say, would then pass it on to Proctor, saving his ass from whatever terrible thing we had in mind for him, the cops. I told her I would sniff around.'

'So where is he?'

'Proctor? One thing at a time. Don't you want to hear what a brilliant detective I am?'

'No.'

'Okay, then I won't tell you how I went to this spic snitch named Francisco Palacios, who is also known as The Gaucho, or sometimes The Cowboy, and who runs a little store that sells in the front medicinal herbs, dream books, religious statues, numbers books, tarot cards and such, but in the back French ticklers, open-crotch panties, vibrators, dildoes, benwa balls and the like, not that this is against the law. I won't tell you how The Cowboy mentioned to me that another stoolie named Donner had been in asking about this very same Doctor Proctor who it seems the boys of the Eight-Seven have been inquiring about. I won't tell you how it occurs to me that perhaps it was somebody from up here who was nosing around 1146 Park Street, which was Proctor's last known address, who according to The Cowboy he has busted parole and is being very cautious, anyway. I will not tell you all this, Steve-arino,' Ollie said, and grinned.

'What will you tell me?'

'Not where Proctor is, 'cause I don't know.'

'Terrific,' Carella said. 'So what are you doing up here?'

'My friend? This lady I was telling you about?'

'Yeah?'

'I know her friend's name.'

* * * *

Eileen hadn't said a word for the past twenty minutes.

Just kept sitting there staring at Karin.

Karin hadn't said anything either.

It was a staring contest.

Eileen looked at her watch.

'Yes?' Karin said.

'Nothing.'

'You can leave whenever you want to,' Karin said. 'This isn't violin lessons.'

'I didn't think it was.'

'What I mean is . . .'

'Yes, I . . .'

'No one's forcing you to do this.'

'I'm here of my own free will, I know.'

'Exactly.'

'But that doesn't…'

Eileen caught herself, shook her head.

'Doesn't what?'

'Doesn't mean I don't know you're sitting there waiting to pounce on whatever I might say.'

'Is that what you think?'

Eileen said nothing.

'That I'm waiting to pounce on you?'

'That's your job, isn't it? To take whatever I say and make a federal case out of it?'

'I never thought of my job as . . .'

'Let's not get into your job, okay? The reason I'm here is I want to quit my job. And so far I haven't had any help in that direction.'

'Well, we've only seen each other . . .'

'So how long does it take to write a resignation letter?'

'Is that what you want me to help you with? A resignation letter?'

'You know what I . . .'

'But I don't know.'

'I want to quit, damn it! And I can't seem to do it.'

'Maybe you don't want to quit.'

'I do.'

'All right.'

'You know I do.'

'Yes, that's what you told me.'

'Yes. And it's true.'

'You want to quit because you killed a man.'

'Yes.'

'And you're afraid if you stay on the job . . .'

'I'll be forced into another situation, yes, where I'll have to use the gun again.'

'Have to fire the gun again.'

'Yes.'

'Kill again.'

'Yes.'

'You're afraid of that.'

'Yes.'

'What else are you afraid of?'

'What do you want me to say?'

'Whatever you're thinking. Whatever you're feeling.'

'I know what you'd like me to say.'

'And what's that?'

'I know exactly what you'd like me to say.'

"Tell me'

'You'd like me to say rape.'

'Uh-huh.'

'You'd like me to say I'm afraid of getting raped again . . .'

'Are you?'

' . . .that I want to quit before some son of a bitch rapes me again.'

'Is that how you feel?'

Eileen did not answer.

For the remaining five minutes of the hour, she sat there staring at Karin.

At last, Karin smiled and said, 'I'm sorry, our time is up. I'll see you on Thursday, okay?'

Eileen nodded, slung her shoulder bag, and went to the door. At the door, she hesitated with her hand on the knob. Then she turned and said, 'I am. Afraid of that, too.'

And turned again and went out.

* * * *

Sammy Pedicini was used to talking to cops. Whenever a burglary went down in this city, the cops paid Sammy a little visit, asked him all kinds of questions. Sammy always told them the same thing. Whatever it was they were investigating, it wasn't Sammy who did it. Sammy had taken a fall ten years ago, and now he was outside again, and he had learned his lesson.

'Whatever this is,' Sammy told Carella now, 'I didn't do it.'