Tigo looked at his watch. It was twenty minutes past eleven. He didn’t know where to go next.
He tried the pool hall on Culver and Third, but nobody there had seen Wiggy, and then he tried The Corset Lady on South Fifth, which was run by a foxy chick named Aleda who made very fine ladies’ underwears and who used to go with Wiggy, but not for six months or so now, but she hadn’t seen him and didn’tcare to see him, thanks. Then he tried the First Bap on St. Sab’s because believe it or not Walter Wiggins was a religious man who went to church every Sunday, but the Reverend Gabriel Foster hadn’t seen him since, in fact, last Sunday, had anything happened to him? Foster was always looking for something that had happened to anybody in the black community, some cause he could champion on his radio show, some put-upon black he could go march to City Hall about. Tigo was beginning to think maybe somethinghad happened to Wiggy. This business, things happened.
He finally tried a man named Little Nicholas, who did business out the back of a laundromat he owned and operated on Lyons and South Thirty-fifth. Little Nicholas was about five-feet, eight-inches tall and Tigo guessed he weighed something like three, four hundred pounds. What Little Nicholas did was sell guns. He told Tigo that Wiggy had been in there late last night, and had purchased a beautiful submachine gun called the Cobray M11-9, would Tigo be interested in seeing some very fine banned weapons and silencers that had come in from all over the nation only yesterday? Tigo asked had he seed Wiggy anytimetoday? Little Nicholas said No, he hadn’t had the pleasure.
It was a quarter to twelve.
The snow was coming down pretty hard now.
Tigo wondered where the fuck Wiggy could be.
WIGGY WAS SITTING at Halloway’s computer up at W&D. One of the Mexicans—he guessed it was Ortiz—came out of the conference room where they were holding the staff, and asked him shouldn’t he be going for the money soon? They had already decided, after some sound reasoning from Wiggy, that he should be the one who went for the cash, in case there was any language problem, not that he meant to be disparaging. He looked up at the wall clock now. It was only twelve noon, and Halloway’s accountant had advised them to allow a half-hour to get there for their one o’clock appointment, which meant there was still plenty of time before him and Halloway had to go out into what looked like a full-fledged blizzard.
“I got time yet,” he told Ortiz, or Villada, or whoever the hell he was.Whoeverhe was, Wiggy planned never to see him or his partner ever again the minute he got his hands on that money.Adios, amigos, it was very nice knowing you.
Meanwhile, there was some very interesting information on the W&D computer.
CARELLA AND MEYER were having lunch in a diner on Culver and Eighth, not far from the station house. Meyer was eating a salad and drinking iced tea. Carella was eating a hamburger and fries. Meyer told him that just two days ago, his wife had told him they should go buy him some clothes for the new year.
“She said we’d have to go to a shop forlarge men, was what she called it. I said, ‘Why do we have to go to a large men’s shop?’ She said, ‘Because we won’t find anything to fit you in a regular men’s store.’ I said, ‘Hey, come on, Sarah, I can buy clothes off the rack at any store in town! Large men’s shops are for men who areobese.’ So she looks me dead in the eye and says, ‘Well?’ ”
“Sarah said that, huh?”
“Sarah.”
“Said you were fat, in effect.”
“Obese.”
“In effect.”
“Do you think I’m obese?”
“No. Ollie Weeks is obese,” Carella said, and popped a fry into his mouth. “You’re what I’d call chubby.”
“Chubby! That’sworse than obese!”
“Well … plump maybe.”
“Keep going. How’s your damn hamburger?”
“Terrific.”
“The fries?”
“Splendid.”
“You forgot stout.”
“Stout’s a good one, too.”
“You ever have a weight problem?”
“Never. I’ve always been svelte.”
“I’ve always been borderline.”
“Borderline what?”
“Obese!” Meyer said, and both men burst out laughing.
The laughter trailed.
“I’ve got other problems, though,” Carella said.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Meyer looked at him. Carella’s face, his eyes were suddenly very serious.
“Tell me,” Meyer said.
“You think I’ve changed?” Carella asked.
“How do you mean?”
“I don’t know. Am I different?”
“You seem the same to me.”
“Teddy says I’ve changed since my father got killed. She says I never cried for him. She says I never cried for Danny, either, Danny Gimp. I don’t even remember if I did. She says I’ve been drinking too much, she says …”
“Ah, shit, Steve, you haven’t, have you?”
“No. I don’t think so. I hope not. It’s just …”
“What?”
“Ah, Jesus.”
“What, Steve? Tell me.”
“I think I’m scared.”
“Come on. You’re not scared.”
“I think I am. Teddy’s afraid I might eat my own gun one day. I’ll tell you the truth …”
“Don’t even say it.”
Both men fell silent.
Carella was looking down at his hands.
“I think I’m scared,” he said again. “Really, Meyer.”
“Come on, scared. Of what?”
“Dying,” Carella said. “I’m afraid I’ll get killed.”
“We’re all afraid we’ll get killed.”
“I came so close, Meyer.”
“We’ve all come close, one time or another. O’Brien comes close every day of his life.”
“O’Brien’s a hard luck cop. And he never had a lion sitting on his chest.”
“So what are you scared of? Another lion sitting on your chest? Come on, Steve.”
“He almost had my head in his mouth, I could feel his breath on my face, I could smell his breath. Another minute, he’d have closed his jaws on me. I never came that close to dying before.”
“And you’ll never come that close again. What do you think this is, the African plains? Come on. This is acity, Steve. You don’t run into lions on the streets here.”
“I dream about that lion every night, Meyer. Every fucking night, I see that lion in my dreams. I wake up sweating, Meyer, shaking. I’m scared it’ll happen again. And next time …”
“It’s okay to be scared,” Meyer said.
“Not if you’re a cop.”
“We’re all scared.”
“Cops shouldn’t …”