“Our own personnel are quite capable of getting onto the island and recovering whatever’s left of the dead woman,” he said.
The ES Captain told him it might be very risky for a “civilian” to go over there to retrieve the body while the lions were in a “feeding frenzy,” as he put it, though in all truth the animals seemed to be taking their morning meal in a leisurely manner. The ES Captain’s team tended to agree with him. The team had rescued people trapped in elevators, had scissored open automobiles with people squashed inside them, had plucked charred bodies from sizzling electrical cables, had even picked the locks on cell doors when hookers plugged them with bubble gum to avoid court appearances. This, however, was the first time they’d ever seen a woman being chewed to ribbons by half a dozen lions. Which did not stop them from becoming instant experts.
One of the guys on the team suggested that maybe they should go for the leg first, as a sort of training exercise. Throw the young lion over there in the Eight-Eight somethingelse to eat, lure him away from the leg, lay a ladder across the moat, snatch the leg away from him while he was thus distracted. The ES Captain was of the opinion that human flesh was something of a treat for these animals and it might not be easy to tempt them away from it with ordinary fare. Ollie was getting hungrier and hungrier. Carella and Meyer were watching the pride at work. Over on the island, the ground around the kill was disturbed, the snow trampled and spattered with blood.
Ollie wandered over to where the ES Captain and his team were discussing their next move. The Captain’s name was Ernie Levine. This being the Hanukkah weekend and all, Ollie figured it wouldn’t hurt to remind Levine that he was a Jew.
“Hey, Ernie,” he said, “what’re you doing on the job, your holiday and all?”
Levine knew Ollie from previous jobs. He greeted him with something less than enthusiasm.
“Hello, Ollie,” he said briefly.
“You put up your Hanukkah bush yet?” Ollie asked.
“We don’t have anything like that in our house,” Levine said.
“You light all ten of your candles?”
“Nine,” Levine corrected.
“You think that lady out there is kosher?” Ollie asked. “Cause I hear lions don’t eat pork.”
“Eatthisa while,” Levine said, and briefly grasped his crotch, and then walked over to where the zoo’s General Director had just arrived in a dither. The director’s name was Alfred Hardy. He was in his late thirties, Carella guessed, a tall slender man you’d figure for a lawyer or an accountant rather than somebody running a small city. Which was what the Grover Park Zoo was, in effect: a small city within a much larger city. Hardy took one look at the situation and told Levine he wanted everyone out of here while his people performed what to him was a simple rescue operation. Levine explained that there was nobody to rescue anymore. The victim was already dead and in fact being consumed at this very moment. Hardy said there were five healthylions to rescue. Levine said he would have to clear that with his Deputy-Inspector.
“Fine,” Hardy said heatedly, “you go do that. Meanwhile, I’ll be getting my lions off that island.” He turned to Boyd. “Make sure nobody tries to go out there. I’ll be in the holding area,” he said, and marched off in a huff. Carella figured that anyone who arrived in a dither and went off in a huff couldn’t be all bad. Levine went back to the truck to call his superior. Ollie shrugged and turned to where Carella and Meyer were still watching the lions. A pretty blonde from Channel Four News sidled up to Carella and said, “Fascinating, isn’t it?”
“Thrilling,” Ollie said.
The blonde turned to him as if surprised to learn that a hippopotamus could speak.
“Want to go for some breakfast?” Ollie asked.
“Thanks, I’ve already eaten,” she said.
“I didn’t mean you, Miss,” he said, and grinned. “I was talking to my colleagues here. These superior sleuths from the Eighty-seventh Precinct.”
“Better wait till the ME gets here, don’t you think?” Carella said.
“But now that you mention it, I’m Detective/First Grade Oliver Wendell Weeks,” Ollie said, turning back to the blonde. “Want to interview me?”
“What for?”
“The leg over there is in my jurisdiction.”
“Then why don’t you go take it away from that lion?”
“I might in a little while.”
“Good. You go get the leg, and then I’ll interview you.”
“I also play piano,” he said.
“A shame we don’t have a piano here in the park,” the blonde said, and turned back to Carella. “How do you suppose the woman got out there?” she asked.
“I’ve been taking lessons for almost two weeks now,” Ollie said. “Right now, I’m working on ‘Night and Day.’ ”
Boyd had been told to make sure no one went out onto the island. But he had just heard the blonde’s question and he wanted to get a little closer to someone who looked so leggy and all in a short skirt and high-heeled boots and a brown leather jacket. So he came over to explain that the way personnel got onto the island was through a tunnel under the moat …
“The lions are brought inside every night,” he explained. “To cages in the holding area.”
“That’s very interesting,” the blonde said.
“I’m gonna learn five songs,” Ollie said.
“That’s very interesting, too,” the blonde said, and turned back to where Carella and Meyer were still watching the lions. It was a frighteningly cold morning, but neither of the men was wearing a hat. Carella’s hair was brown, dancing on his head now in a brisk wind. Meyer was totally bald; his barren pate made him look colder than he actually was. The two detectives stood like bookends flanking Fat Ollie, whose little red watch cap was tilted at a rakish angle. Actually, Ollie thought he cut a fine figure of sartorial elegance.
“My name is Honey Blair,” the blonde told Carella, “I rove for the Five o’Clock News.”
“Hello, Honey,” Ollie said. “I rove for the Eighty-eighth Squad.”
Honey was thinking the two big detectives made a nice picture standing there watching the voracious lions. They were both tall and wide-shouldered, the bald guy looking solid and serious, the other one looking sexy as hell in a way she couldn’t quite understand, he wasn’t that good-looking. Something about the way his eyes slanted downward maybe, giving him a sort of Chinese appearance, though he certainly wasn’t Oriental. Something about thelook in the eyes, maybe. Dark and brooding. As if it pained him to see the woman out there being torn to shreds.
“You new in the job?” she asked him.
“New? Me?” he said, and smiled, and shook his head.
The smile got to her, too.
“Want me to take your picture?” she asked.
“Sure,” Ollie said.
“You and your partner,” Honey said. “Looking over at the lions.”
“I don’t think so, thanks,” Carella said.
“Why not?”
“Wouldn’t be professional,” he said.