--We call it pissing in the gutter.
-I call it disrespect for the neighborhood.
what the letter P stand for? Pissing? -Join us, why don't you? My name is Richard.
Big white guy zipping up and extending his hand to Richie.
So is mine.
Second white guy holding out his hand, too. --Me, too.
Third guy holding out his hand.
--As it happens, my name is Richard, too.
Richie holding out his hand, shaking hands with the three white guys, one after the other. And now there's a serious conversation at the curb, Richie probably explaining that what he did up here in Diamondback was sell crack cocaine to nice little boys like the three preppies here in their hooded parkas. In a minute or so, he begins leading them up the street, past the diner where Curly Joe is still sitting in the window booth, probably taking them to a place called the Trash Cat, which is an underground bar where there are plenty of girls all hours of the night, just like the Harley here.
They stop again not far from the diner, like at an angle to it, for another serious conversation Curly Joe can see but not hear.
You dudes interested in some nice jumbo vials I happen to have in my pocket here? You care for a taste at fifteen a pop?
And now Curly Joe sees crack and money changing hands, black to white and white to black, and all at once a taxi pulls up to the curb, and a long-legged white girl in a fake-fur jacket and red leather boots steps out. She looks familiar but Curly Joe doesn't recognize her at first. The driver's window rolls down, he's got like a dazed expression on his face, as if he just got hit by a bus.
Thanks, Max.
The girl blows him a kiss and swivels onto the sidewalk, a red handbag under her arm... Hey, Yolande, you jess the girl we lookin and Curly Joe recognizes her all at once hooker Jamal Stone fixed him up with one time Jamal laid two bills on a pony and was a little cash. Her name was Marie St. Claire, she'd given Curly Joe the best blow job he'd ever had in his lifetime, did in his llie ever hear of a Moroccan now there's another big conference at the curb, Joe watching but not hearing, Richie's hands Six hundred for the three preppies here, shy? Two hundred apiece for the next few hours, bobbing, you take me on, I'll throw five jumbos pot, whutchoo say, girlfriend? big summit here on Ainsley Avenue We all go up my place some crack, get down to realities, sistuh, you whut I'm sayin?
--Well, I've been out since eleven last night, been along one, bro. So maybe we ought to just unless we can sweeten the pot a little, mm?
--Whutchoo mean sweeten it? How sweet do' wish to sweeten it?
If you 'll be joining the party I'll need ten No problem.
And a grand from the college boys here.
you're all so cute, I might do it for nine.
Make it eight.
I can't do it for less than nine. Hey, you "re cute, but... How about eight-fifty?
-It has to be nine or I'm out of here.
--Will you accept travelers checks?
-Done deal.
" and they all start laughing. They musta concluded their negotiation, don't you think?" Curly Joe said. "Cause next thing you know, she's looping her hands through two of the guys' arms, and they' all marchin off toward Richie's buildin, her in the red jacket, and Richie in his black leather, and the three kids with these hooded blue parkas got big white Ps and footballs on the back of them."
Daybreak is aptly named.
Unlike sunset, where colors linger in the sky long after the sun has dropped below the horizon, sunrise is heralded by a similar flush, but the display is brief, and suddenly it is morning. Suddenly the sky is bright. Day literally breaks, surprising the pinkish night, setting it to rout.
From the windows of the squad room on the second floor of the old precinct building, they watched the day break over the city. It, was going to be cold and clear again. The clock on the squad room wall read seven-fifteen.
At a little past seven-thirty, the detectives began drifting in for the shift change. Officially this was called the eight-to-four, but it started at seven forty-five, because many uniformed cops were relieved on post, and detectives all of whom had once pounded beats honored the timeworn tradition. They hung their hats and coats on the rack in the corner, and exchanged morning greetings. Complaining about the vile coffee from the pot brewing in the clerical office down the hall, they sat nonetheless on the edges of their desks and sipped it "
from soggy cardboard containers. Outside the wind raged at the windows.
They double-teamed this one because it was more than thirty-one hours since they'd Dyalovich squeal and they were not very much to finding the person or persons who'd killed It was also two full days since they'd discovered the body of Yolande Marie Marx in the alleyway Sab's and First. But whereas the Marx murder was officially theirs under the First Man Up rule, they had been informed that Fat Ollie Weeks of the Eight-eight had caught a related double murder, and they were more than content to leave the three-way investigation to him. A hooker, a pimp, and a smalltime dealer? Let Ollie's mother worry.
So here they all were, those legendary stalwarts the Eight-Seven, gathered in Lieutenant Byrnes sunny corner office at ten minutes to eight Monday morning, Carella and Hawes telling others what they had so far, and hoping that in this brilliant think tank would offer a clue or that would help them crack the case wide open.
"What it sounds like to me," Andy Parker said, you have nothing."
Parker was a good friend of Ollie Weeks. because they were both bigots. But whereas Ollie also a good detective, Parker only rarely rose heights of deductive dazzle. He was almost as big a slob, as Ollie, however, favoring unpressed soiled suits, unpolished shoes, and an unshaven face he believed made him resemble a good television cop. Parker figured there were only two kinds
of cop shows. The lousy ones, which he called The Cops of Madison County, and the good ones, which he called Real Meat Funk.
As a detective, albeit not a very good one, Parker knew that the word "funk" descended from the word "funky," which in turn evolved from a style of jazz piano-playing called "funky butt," which translated as "smelly asshole." He was amused the other day when a radio restaurant critic mentioned that the food in a downtown bistro was "funky."
Not many things amused Parker.
Especially so early in the morning.
"Well, we do have the guy's name," Hawes said. "What guy?"
"The guy who bought the murder weapon." "Who you can't find."
"Well, he moved out yesterday," Carella said.
"So he's in flight, is that what you figure?" Willis asked.
He was poised on the edge of the lieutenant's desk like a gargoyle on Notre Dame cathedral, listening carefully, brown eyes intent. Byrnes liked him a lot. He liked small people, figured small people had to try harder. Willis had barely cleared the minimum-height requirement for policemen in this city, but he was an expert at judo and could knock any cheap thief flat on his ass in less than ten seconds. His girlfriend had been shot and killed only recently, by a pair of Colombian goons who'd broken into her apartment. Willis never much talked about her, but he hadn't been the same since. Byrnes worried. He worried about all of his people.
after the murder, he
"Day powders,"
Kling
"it's got to be flight."
Worried a lot about Kling, too. Never had any trouble with women, it seemed. Byrnes understood he'd split up with a black woman, a deputy chief in department, no less, as if the black-white thing wasn't difficult enough. Byrnes wished him the best, but remained to be seen. Next chapter, he thought. Life always full of next chapters, some of them written.
"Maybe he's already back in Italy," Brown said. Scowling. Always scowling. Made it look as if he was angry all the time, like a lot of black people in the city were, with damn good cause. But in all the time he'd known Brown, he'd never seen him lose his temper. Giant of a man, could have been for a professional football team, reminded him a lot of Rosie Grier, in fact, though Grier was now, what, minister? He tried to imagine Brown as a minister.