“Wouldn’t it be better to park directly outside?”
“It is forbidden to park in front of the hall. Or, in fact, anywhere on that side of the street. Most of the limo drivers park across the way or around the corner. Jassim knows where I’ll be. We’ve run this through many times already.”
Mahmoud looked at him skeptically.
“Half the taxicab and limousine drivers in this city are from the Middle East,” Akbar said. “I will not arouse any suspicion. I will sit behind the wheel quietly, minding my own business, smoking a cigarette and waiting for my fat Jew employer to come out of the hall. Jassim and I will find each other, don’t worry.”
“You’ve got only twelve minutes to find each other,” Mahmoud reminded them.
“I’ll be watching for him to come out,” Akbar said. “We’ll have more than enough time, believe me.”
“What time does the concert start?” Nikmaddu asked.
“It’s supposed to begin at eight. Experience has taught me that it always starts some five or ten minutes later.”
“And the intermission is when?”
“The Rossini overture can take anywhere between nine and eleven minutes and the Mozart symphony between twenty-five and thirty-five. On average, I would expect the first half of the concert to run some forty minutes. The intermission should start at around nine or a little bit after.”
“Can you not be more precise?” Nikmaddu asked.
“I’m sorry,” Akbar said. “Western music is not always precise. In any case, I’ll arm the bomb when Jassim returns to the limousine. I’ll place it in his bag, and he’ll go back into the hall. You’d be surprised how long a time twelve minutes is.”
“I hope so. I wouldn’t want the bomb to explode while he’s still outside on the sidewalk.”
“No, that can’t possibly happen. The intermission will end, let’s say, at nine-fifteen. They will allow at most five minutes for everyone to get settled again. Let’s say the Jew comes on stage at nine-twenty. The bomb will be set to explode at nine-thirty. Jassim will be long gone by then.”
“Inshallah,”Mahmoud said.
“Inshallah,”the others repeated.
The men fell silent.
“The weather is supposed to be clear and cold tonight,” Nikmaddu said at last.
“Good,” Mahmoud said. “Then our drive to Florida should be trouble free.”
“Someday, I would love to spend some time in Florida,” Akbar said, almost wistfully.
THE BLONDE Ollie had shot in the back was in a room on the sixth floor of Hoch Memorial. A male police officer was stationed outside the door to the room. The clock on the wall behind him read twelve-fortyP.M. The blonde had plastic tubes trailing out of her nose. The blonde had lines running into her arm. Neither Carella nor Ollie felt the slightest bit of pity or compassion for her on this cold December afternoon at the end of the year.
“Want to tell us who you are?” Carella asked.
“I don’t have to tell you anything,” she said. “You’re making a grave mistake here.”
“You’re the one who made the grave mistake,” Ollie said.
“Threeof them,” Carella said.
The blonde smiled.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“I don’t have to tell you that.”
“You killed two civilians and tried to kill a police officer. Do you know what kind of trouble you’re in here?”
“I’m not in any trouble at all.”
“Two counts of Murder Two …”
“Another count of Attempted …”
“On our block, that’s pretty serious,” Ollie said.
“On my block, it’s routine,” she said.
“And where’s that, Miss?”
“What’s your name, Miss?”
“Where do you live?”
“How come you weren’t carrying any identification?”
The blonde smiled again.
“You think this is pretty funny, don’t you?” Ollie said. “Trying to kill a police officer.”
“How about a police officer shooting me in the back?” she said. “Do you thinkthat’s funny?”
“Not as funny as it might have been if I’d killed you,” Ollie said. “That really would’ve been comical.”
“You think so, huh? Just wait, Mister.”
“For what?” Ollie said.
“Just wait.”
“What it is, you see, we don’t like cops getting shot in this city.”
“Then cops in this city should keep their noses out of other people’s business.”
“Which people are you talking about?”
“People with more important matters on their minds than two piss-ant dope dealers.”
“Oh?” Carella said.
“Oh?” Ollie said.
“You knew they were dealing, huh?”
The blonde smiled.
“What else did you know about them?”
She shook her head.
“Did you know one of them killed a man named Jerry Hoskins?”
She kept smiling, shaking her head.
“Ever hear that name?”
“Jerry Hoskins?”
“Got himself shot on Christmas Eve by one of the guysyou shot last night? Think there might be a connection?”
“Stop blowing smoke up my skirt,” she said.
“Jerry Hoskins? Frank Holt?” Ollie said.
“One and the same person,” Carella said.
“Sold Wiggins a hundred keys of coke on Christmas Eve …”
“Got paid for it with a bullet at the back of his head. Ever hear of him?”
“Jerry Hoskins?”
“Frank Holt?”
The blonde said nothing.
“Ever hear of a woman named Cass Ridley?” Ollie said.
“Cassandra Ridley?” Carella said.
“Flew a hundred keys of shit out of Mexico for Jerry Hoskins. Ever hear ofher?”
“I’m not saying anything until my people contact you.”
“Oh? Your people? Who are these people?”
“You’ll find out.”
“You got friends in high places?” Ollie asked.
“The Mayor’s office?”
“The Governor’s mansion?”
“The White House?”
“Go ahead, laugh,” she said.
“Nobody’s laughing,” Ollie said. “What it looks like is you knew Walter Wiggins was dealing drugs, and maybe you also knew Hoskins was in the same business …”
“Keep blowing smoke,” she said.
“Did you also know Cass Ridley, who flew the shit up from Mexico?”