It seemed odd to find a grand piano in what was basically a slum apartment, but Helen had crowded one into a corner of her small living room, and it was here that Ollie shared a piano bench with her while he pored over the sheet music for “Night and Day.” Helen sat perched to his right on one scant corner of the bench, Ollie’s wide buttocks overwhelming the remainder of it. He kept pecking away at the keys.
“I’m having trouble with the notes in the first few bars,” he said.
He loved musical terms.
Until now, a bar was just a place where you went to have a beer.
Helen looked at him.
“The notes in the first fewbars?” she asked.
“Yeah. They’re giving me trouble,” he said.
“There is onlyone note in the first few bars,” she said. “It is the same note repeated three times. G. The note is G. Three times. Bom, bom, bom. Night. And. Day. That is the same note, Mr. Weeks. How can it be giving you trouble?”
“I don’t know, it’s just giving me trouble.”
“Mr. Weeks, we’ve been working on the first six measures of this song for the past little while now …”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Without, I must confess, noticeable progress. Are yousure you want to take piano lessons?”
“I am very sure. Yes, Miss Hobson. My ambition is to play five songs on the piano.”
“Because … and this is a possibility you may wish to consider, Mr. Weeks … perhaps you have no talent.”
“Oh, I have talent, all right.”
“Perhaps not.”
“I have talent to spare. I think I’m just in some kind of slump, is all. Not bein able to get past those first three notes.”
“But those first three notes are one and thesame note! Bom, bom, bom,” she said, demonstrating, striking the note three times in succession. “Night. And.Day!” she said, striking the same note again and again and again. “It is impossible for you to be having trouble with the identical note struck three times. It is physically impossible, Mr. Weeks. Bom, bom, bom,” she said, hitting the note again. “It’s so simple arodent could tap it out with his nose.”
“It isn’t that I haven’t been practicing,” he said.
“Bom, bom, bom,” she said.
“It’s just I caught these two murder cases …”
“Please,” she said, and lowered her eyes.
“I’m sorry, I know you don’t like to hear about …”
“I truly don’t.”
“I’m just trying to explain I’ve been very busy. And also, I’ve begun writing a book.”
Helen turned to look at him.
“Yeah,” he said, and grinned. “A novel.”
She kept staring at him.
“A novel,” she said. “My.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”
He went on to explain that he’d been a cop for almost twenty years now, and a detective for fifteen of those years, so he knew a little bit more about police work than your average run-of-the-mill aspiring writer, didn’t he?
“I’m sure you do,” Helen said.
So he’d picked up what he guessed was some sort of form letter this editor at Wadsworth and Dodds …
“Which is where I’m investigating the second murder …”
… writes to people who make inquiries and it had really been very helpful, and had probably started him on yet another worthwhile career, though not one so satisfying as yet as playing the piano …
“If I can just get past those first three notes,” he said.
“Thesamenote, Mr. Weeks. It is theidentical note. Bom, bom,bom,” she said, pounding the G key.
“His name is Henry Daggert,” Ollie said.
“Whose name?”
“This editor at Wadsworth and Dodds. He’s a senior editor and vice president. I practically memorized everything he wrote.”
“But you can’t memorize the first note of this song,” Helen said, tapping the sheet music. “Such asimple note, too. Just think of the three notes as thesame note, can you do that? Place your index finger over the G key, and strike it once, bom. Let it resonate, and then strike it again, bom. Can you do that?”
“Oh sure,” Ollie said.
Helen looked at the keyboard somewhat despairingly. “We have a few more minutes,” she said. “Do you think we can try it one more time?”
AT FIRST , he insisted he knew no one named Cassandra Jean Ridley. Knew no one named Frank, either. Ofany last name whatever. No Franks at all in his busy life as a Texas Ranger.
But this was sunny Mexico.
So they used a cattle prod on his testicles.
He all at once remembered the good-looking redhead and this man named Frank Whoever, but all he’d done was introduce the pair,“Verdad,” he said in Spanish, he scarcely knew them at all, really. Cassie—the guys in the bar used to call her Cassie—was an attractive redhead, and Frank was just someone he’d seen around, nice-enough fellow, he thought they might hit it off together, didn’t even know his last name,verdad, amigos.
“I’m a Texas Ranger,” he told them. “What I do mostly is border patrol, trying to keep the wetbacks out, you know …”
He actually used the word “wetbacks”in the presence of two Mexicans who were holding a cattle prod an inch away from his quivering balls …
“No offense meant,” he said immediately. “The point is …”
The point was he knew nothing about any money that was flown south of the border by Lieutenant Ridley or anyone else, knew nothing about any deals made between these two obviously fine gentlemen here and anyone in the entire universe, did not know anything about Frank Whatever-His-Last-Name-Was, whom he’d only met in a bar, did not know how much a key of cocaine was worth, did not even know what cocainewas, ask him any other question, he was very good at geography.
They gave him a longer jolt this time.
His balls shriveled right up into his throat.
Okay, he told them, the man’s name is Frank Holt, I knew him only as an independent contractor who was normally very reliable. I had no idea what kind of deal was going down in Mexico, I merely put together a man and a pilot. The man needed a delivery and pickup, and the pilot had to be willing to take risks—which, by the way, Lieutenant Ridley had taken plenty of during the Gulf War, from what he’d heard about her. He believed she’d been decorated for valor, in fact. An honorable woman who’d served her nation well in times of dire stress, he felt sure she would not have had any part of a scheme designed to bilk anyone out of fair payment in exchange for his goods, whatever those goods might have been, though he’d had no idea the lady would be picking up cocaine across the border. He told them he’d certainly hadn’t the faintestnotion that counterfeit money was being flown to Mexico in exchange for what was undoubtedly very high-grade coke indeed, the two gentlemen here seeming trustworthy and entirely professional. In short, he’d been a mere instrument of convenience, an enabler, a facilitator, so to speak, an all-around nice guy who’d tried to be helpful, was all. If the gentlemen here had got stung, Randolph L. Biggs hadn’t had anything to do with it. They would have to look elsewhere for satisfaction.