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The silence lengthened.

“Well,” Carella said, “thanks for your time. We appreciate it.”

“Andthe delightful repast,” Ollie said, and stuffed some Fig Newtons into his jacket pocket.

They were walking out of the Headley Building, toward the square across the street with its statue of William George Douglas Rae, the gentleman scholar who had captivated the heart of the city with his grace, his charm, and his sparkling wit, when Ollie said, “What do you think? Is the flyboy’s word enough for an arrest warrant?”

“What flyboy?”

“Cass Ridley’s brother in Germany.”

“Depends on what judge we get.”

“You think Halloway’s in on this?”

“In on what?”

“On whatever the fuck itis.”

“If he is, we’ve got him thinking.”

“We shoulda scared him more.”

“I think we scared him enough,” Carella said.

But Halloway’s bad day was just beginning.

THE DETECTIVES DIDN’T NOTICE Walter Wiggins cross the street and head toward the Headley Building the moment he spotted them coming out onto the sidewalk. Nor did they notice the two Hispanic-looking men who crossed the little park in the square and walked toward the building, reaching it at just about the same time Wiggy did. The two men were Francisco Octavio Ortiz and Cesar Villada, and they had just arrived from Mexico this morning.

They got into the elevator with Wiggy, and all three men told the operator they wanted the fourth floor. The two Mexicans gave Wiggy a glance and then turned away. To Wiggy, they looked like spic hit men. He was beginning to regret having come here altogether. First two bulls in the elevator and now two big hitters. “Fourth floor,” the elevator operator said, and yanked open the door. Wiggy was looking out at the same reception room he’d seen half an hour ago, same fat white chick behind the desk. The two Latinos stepped out of the elevator ahead of him, no fuckin manners. They walked to the desk, Wiggy right behind them.

“We’re looking for a man who works here named Jerome Hoskins,” one of them said.

It came out, “We lookin for a man worrs here name Jerr-o Hosk.”

“Frank Holt,” the other one said.

The last name came out “Hote.”

Which was clear enough to Wiggy, who all at once began to think these two Spanish-American gentlemen were not two hitters but were instead two detectives from the Eight-Eight, investigating the murder of Frank Holt. He almost bolted for the elevator.

“I can’t understand what you’re saying,” the receptionist said, squinting.

“What’syour name?” the first man asked.

He made it sound like a threat, even though it came out with a Spanish accent as thick as guacamole.

“Charmaine,” she said.

“You know a man name Randoff Beegs?” he said. “In Texas?”

“Eagle Branch,” the other one said.

Wiggy was trying to remember if Frank Holt had told him he’d come up from Eagle Branch, Texas. All he could recall was him saying the hundred keys of cocaine had come up from Guenerando, Mexico. He wondered now if Guenerando was anywhere near Eagle Branch. He tried to appear as if he was not listening to the conversation between these two possible dicks and the fat chick behind the desk, but he was standing only three feet behind them, and it was impossible to appear small and insignificant when he weighed two hundred and ten pounds and stood an even six feet tall. He wondered if he should go sit on the bench against the wall, but then he’d miss this fascinating conversation about the man he’d shot in the head. So he stood where he was and pretended not to be eavesdropping. He would have whistled to show how nonchalant he was, but he thought that might only attract attention to him.

“What was that name again?” Charmaine asked. “In Texas?”

“Randolph Biggs,” the first man said.

It still came out “Randoff Beegs.”

“Oh. Yes,” she said, decoding the accent at last. “Let me see if our sales manager is free.” She lifted the receiver on her phone, pressed a button in its base, asked, “Whom shall I say is here?” and raised her eyes expectantly.

“Francisco Ortiz,” one of the men said.

“Cesar Villada,” the other one said.

Wiggy noticed that they did not flash gold badges or identify themselves as detectives. Maybe they were associated with Mr. Holt in some other way. Maybe they were from Eagle Branch, Texas. Maybe they were good old buddies of Frank Holt’s, here to inquire how come he was now dead. In which case, Wiggystill felt he ought to get out of here fast.

“Miss Andersen,” Charmaine said, “there are two gentlemen here inquiring about Mr. Biggs.” She listened, nodded, looked up at the two men again. “May I say what firm you’re with?” she asked.

“Villada and Ortiz,” Ortiz said.

“Villada and Ortiz,” Charmaine said. She listened again. “Is that a bookstore?” she asked.

“Yes, it’s a bookstore,” Villada said.

“In Eagle Branch,” Ortiz said. “Texas,” he said. “Villada and Ortiz, Booksellers.”

Charmaine relayed the information, listened again, put the phone receiver back on its cradle, rose, and said, “I’ll show you in.” She turned to Wiggy as she came around the desk, said, “I’ll be with you in a moment, sir, won’t you have a seat?” and walked off with the two men Wiggy now knew owned a bookstore in Eagle Branch, Texas, which sounded like total bullshit to him.

He went over to the wall on the left of the elevator doors, and sat on the bench there. He looked around the room at the posters hanging on the walls. He’d never heard of any of the books. In a minute or so, Charmaine came back. Instead of going to her desk, though, she walked over to where he was waiting, and sat beside him on the bench.

“So,” she said, and smiled. “How can I help you, sir?”

“On Christmas night,” Wiggy said, “somebody up here phoned for a limo. I want to talk to whoever that might’ve been.”

“That’s very fanciful,” Charmaine said, and smiled coquettishly.

“Are you a writer?”

“No, I’m a drug dealer,” Wiggy said, and grinned like a shark.

“I’ll bet,” Charmaine said.

“I run a posse up in Diamondback,” he said.

“Oh, sure,” she said.

“Who do I talk to about this limo was called for?”