Dunbar really didn’t want to sit on Boynton Street. Which is why he waited until the place cleared out that night, broke in, picked the desk lock, and copied down all the names, addresses, and phone numbers in Barlow’s little book. All of the thirty-two names were nicknames or first names and initials-Chili T., Joe Q., Chingo Ray, Che M., and like that. Very conspiratorial. As he looked over the list, something almost rang a bell in Dunbar’s head. He looked at the list for several minutes trying to make something happen, and failing. Then he locked everything up again and went home to Queens.
The next morning, early, Dunbar went to Centre Street to let Karp know what he had found. Karp was in court. As he left Karp’s office, he ran into Marlene Ciampi in the hallway. As soon as he saw her, the bell finally rang.
“Hey, Champ. What does the name ‘Chingo Ray’ mean to you?”
“Chingo Ray? A.K.A. Charles Hargreaves, A.K.A. Charlie the Bomber. He’s the guy who got blown up in the townhouse. I’m prosecuting his buddies. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, nothing much. His name turned up in an address book I picked up on uptown. He’s waxed, you say?”
“A probable. We know he was at the townhouse the night it blew up. They recovered a male body-in smithereens-from the wreckage. It could be him. On the other hand, he’s a slippery bastard and smart as hell. It’s not beyond him to have set up the explosion and leave us with a plausible stiff, to cover his tracks. Also, the bomb that blew away that judge’s secretary. Very similar to letter bombs Charlie made in the past. So … tell me about this address book. Where did you get it?”
“Just stumbled over it, is all. Look, Champ. I gotta go detect. Catch you later.”
As he walked to his car, Dunbar thought hard. He had asked Barlow about Elvis. The call made right after he left Barlow must have been triggered by his questions. He didn’t think Barlow was calling out for a pizza; he was calling somebody in the book. Elvis’s name was not in the book, therefore he was calling somebody connected with Elvis. Thirty-two addresses to check out. He decided to start with the late Chingo Ray, resident, according to his little list, at 351 Avenue A.
Nobody answered his knock at the apartment on Avenue A. He slipped the lock and went in, pistol drawn. The place looked like a typical East Village crash-mattresses on the floor, a sleeping bag, filthy sheets, garbage bags full of rotting stuff, graffiti sprayed on the walls, political and head-shop posters. A cheap table and chair stood in the center of the main room. The apartment was deserted, but Dunbar was delighted to see evidence of hurried flight-drawers half open, clothes strewn around, a pot of coffee, and dirty dishes in the kitchen sink.
Dunbar put his gun away and checked out the main room. The floor around the table was covered with short snippings of bell wire in different colors. On the table itself were several large manila envelopes. These were stamped and postmarked from different cities- Berkeley, Chicago, Detroit. Oddly, they were not addressed. Dunbar poked around some more. By the stinking trash bags he found more wire, some thin springs and a crumpled package of peel-off labels. It looked like somebody was going through a lot of trouble to create envelopes that could be made to look like they were coming from different places. Dunbar felt a chill run through his body. It had just occurred to him why somebody might want to take such trouble. He grabbed the envelopes and ran out of the apartment without bothering to close the door.
It took him nearly an hour to drive up to Boynton Street, running lights, cutting people off, pounding his fist on the wheel, and cursing every vehicle in front of him. His most vehement curses were reserved for himself. With the wisdom of hindsight it was clear that, once Elvis’s dwelling had been located, someone should have watched it continually thereafter. Now, for some reason, Elvis had formed an association with terrorists. Who could have figured it? Stick-up artists don’t usually move in political circles. The more Dunbar thought about it, the crazier it became.
He screeched to a stop at 563 Boynton, flung himself out of the car, and raced up the stairs. At the Higgs apartment he yanked out his pistol and used it to pound on the door.
When Vera Higgs opened the door a crack, Dunbar threw his weight against it, knocking her to the floor. He stormed through the apartment, kicking through doors, tossing the bed, yanking out drawers. Nothing-no Elvis, no envelopes.
He returned to the living room. The TV was on and the child sat on the floor in front of it. Vera Higgs was just climbing to her feet.
“You knock me down. You din hafta.”
“Right, sorry, it was an accident. Look, Vera, where’s Preston? I’m not fooling now. I got to know where he is.”
Sulkily, she walked slowly to the ratty couch and sat down.
“He ain’t here.”
“Goddamn, I know that! Where is he?”
“I don know. He lef.”
“When? When did he leave?”
“Bout an hour, somethin’ like that.”
“Oh, Christ! Where to?”
“He din say. He never tell me.”
That figured. Dunbar pulled one of the manila envelopes out of his jacket pocket and held it up.
“Vera, did he have an envelope like this?”
“I don have to tell you no thin’. He say, you come back here, I don have to tell you nothin’.”
Dunbar gave a strangled cry. He went over to the little boy, picked him up, and put him on the couch next to his mother. Then he went over to the TV and pointed his pistol at “Lust for Life.” He cocked the hammer.
“Lady, you don’t tell me what I want to know, I’m gonna waste your TV. I swear it!” Dunbar shouted. The child began to blubber.
She got to her feet, her eyes widening in terror.
“No! Don! I got my programs comin’!”
Dunbar put up his gun and eased the hammer down. “OK, what about the envelope?”
“Yeah, he got one-it look the same, but it be real fat, thick like.”
“Was there an address on it? Can you remember the address?”
“No, but, like, Pres, he tol me to write one on it, on account of I got real good handwritin’. The teacher, she be sayin’ I could be a schoolteacher, I got such fine writin’. But I had to quit school, you know?”
“Right,” said Dunbar, moving closer to her and trying to control his voice. “Now, Vera, can you remember the name and address you wrote on the envelope?”
“I don know. I copy it down. He done have it writ out, you know?”
“Try, Vera.”
“It somethin’ like Carl, the las name. And some street like Senn, San, somethin like that. It start with a C.”
“Senn? Was it Centre Street, One hundred Centre Street?”
“Yeah, that it. I think.”
I’m so stupid, I should turn in my potsy and be a fucking doorman, thought Dunbar.
“Vera, baby, tell me. The name was Karp, Roger Karp, right?”
She smiled for the first time. “Yeah! Thas right! Karp.”
“Where’s your phone?”
“They cut it off,” she said. “Hey, I don be in no trouble jus for writin’? I din do nothin’.”
But Dunbar was already gone.
Marlene Ciampi was looking for an excuse to see Karp again, and make up. At the same time she despised herself for wanting to. I can’t believe it, she thought for the millionth time. I’m having an affair with a married man, who works where I work. It was so degrading-like the secretary screwing the boss, like a public convenience or one of his perquisites. Here’s your big office, Mr. Karp, your special couch, your walnut bookcases, your leather judge’s chair. Oh, yeah, you want some pussy? Ciampi, put down that case file and drop your pants.
Then again, she felt, she feared, she was truly in love. She could feel herself flush when he came near her. Her belly gave a jump even when she saw his name written. When she awakened in her own apartment, she felt empty, and it took all her self-restraint not to rush to the phone and call him.