There is a look of such unutterable horror on Katie's face that Sal knows this is going to be resolved in the very next instant without any help from the rest of the band, without any help from him, either, for that matter. City-boy coward that he is, he stands frozen to the spot, watching, incapable of movement, unable to do anything but repeat, "Come on, Charlie.”
Katie comes out of the chair like a lioness.
She shoves at Charlie's chest, and he staggers backward toward the open French doors.
"Hey," he says, "I was only ...”
But she is on him again, shoving out at him again, a hundred and ten pounds of sweaty blind fury pushing the fat drunken fool out onto the deck, and then lunging at him one last time, her fingers widespread on his chest, a hiss escaping her lips as she pushes him over the railing.
There is a splash when he hits the water, and then, instantly, a terrible thrashing that tells them the alligators are getting to him even before he surfaces.
Katie is breathing very hard. The sweaty T-shirt clings to her, Sal can see her nipples puckering it in "So excitement, she has just killed a man.
Sonny "The money," Katie says.
"I "Katie, you killed him.”
He "The money. It was in his pocket." was "Fuck the money," Sal says.
"Do you remember the combination?”
"No. Let's get out of here. Jesus, Katie, you killed lifting him.”
"The combination. Do you remember it?”
On the river below, there is an appalling stillness.
"He Three to the right, stop on twenty, two to the left, “ past twenty, stop on seven. One to the right, stop on thirty-four, killed He recites the numbers aloud to her as she slowly be turns the dial to the right, and to the left, and then to the right again. She opens the door. From the wad of out money in the safe, she peels off the money due them, him: and returns the rest to the safe, and closes the door, “ and twists the dial to lock it again. Sal watches as she “
wipes the dial and the handle clean. She looks around one last time, and then they leave the office. , "In the van,". Sal says, "Got the bread, let's go," and Katie pulls her T-shirt away from her body, the encouraging the cool flow from the air conditioner.
Rigoberto Mendez was setting up his bar at the Siesta when Ollie Weeks caught up with him at one o'clock that afternoon. Weeks ordered himself a beer, for which he did not offer to pay. Sitting at the bar, Ollie slurped noisily and happily from the Heineken bottle, watching Mendez as he polished glasses and checked whiskey levels.
"'o tell me," Llllle sulu, '***-"*-" '-"-"-'" o-., Sonny Cole live?”
"I got no idea," Mendez said.
He was one of these Dominicans who thought he was handsome as hell, black hair slicked back, little toothbrush mustache under his nose, wearing a tank-top shirt bulging with muscles he probably got lifting weights in the slammer.
"Man comes in your club ...”
"First time I ever saw him.”
"He killed a cop's father, you know that?" Ollie said. "No, I didn't know that.”
“That makes it very serious," Ollie said. "He maybe killed Juju, too, which is no great loss, but justice must be served, hm? I'm eager to talk to him. Find out where the two of them went when they left here. Find out what they talked about. Find out did Sonny shoot him in the head, what do you think?”
"About what?”
"About did Sonny shoot him?”
"I don't know what Sonny did. He never came back here since that Friday night. I don't know where he lives, or what he does for a living. You're pissing up the wrong tree.”
"Maybe so. Can I have another beer? This is very nice beer.”
Mendez opened another Heineken for him.
"You think he lives in the neighborhood?" he asked. "I'm pretty sure he don't.”
“How you suppose he got here?”
“He came looking for Juju.”
"I didn't say why, I said how.”
“I don't follow you.”
"Fransportation," Olllie said.
Mendez looked at him.
"Everybody has to have a means of transportation.
He comes all the way up here to Hightown, how did he get here? Did he walk? Did he take the subway? Did he ride a bus? Did he come in a tax ...”
“He drove here," Mendez said. Ollie put down the beer bottle. "How do you know that?”
“I saw his car.”
“What kind of car?”
“A Honda.”
“What color?”
“Green.”
"You didn't happen to see the license plate number, did you?”
"No. Why would I look at the license plate?”
"Anything peculiar about the car? Dented fender? Broken tail light, anything that might identify it?”
“Not that I saw.”
"When was this?”
“That I saw the car?”
“Yeah.”
"Friday night. When he came back to the club lookin for Tirana.”
"The hooker, yeah.”
"She's a manicurist.”
"I'm sure she does great nails. That's when you saw the car, huh?”
"Yeah. There was a parking ticket on the windshield. He tore it up and drove off.”
Bingo, Ollie thought.
1Sack at the preCllltst, t.lx." ,.,..,............. and asked for a kick-up on parking tickets written Friday night, August 28, targeting a green Honda parked in front of the Club Siesta. One of the sergeants there didn't get back to him until three o'clock. He informed Ollie that the green Honda was an Accord registered to a woman named Coralee Hilbert, who lived at 1114 Clarendon Avenue, in a better section of Diamondback, such as it was. Ollie took a cab uptown. He didn't like to drive because the steering wheel and his belly were always in contention. Besides, when he took a cab, he charged it to squad room petty cash, and if anybody questioned this, he told him where to go.
There was another benefit to taking taxis. It enabled him to enter into lively discussion with Pakistani drivers.
The first thing Ollie always did with a Pakistani cabdriver or for that matter, any cabdriver who looked like a fuckin foreigner, which was only every other cabdriver in the city was show his shield. This was so there'd be no heated arguments later on; some of these fuckin camel jockeys were very sensitive.
"Police officer," he said at once, flashing the tin.
"I' mgoing to 1114 Clarendon Avenue.”
The driver said nothing.
"If you heard me, blink," Ollie said.
"I heard you, sir.”
"Good. Do you know where Clarendon Avenue is?”
“I know where it is, sir.”
"Terrific, we're already ahead of the game. I'm in kind of a hurry, Abdul, but I wouldn't want you to speed.”
The driver's name was MunsafAzhar, displayed on a red card to the left of the yellow cab license, but Ollie called every Paki cabdriver Abdul.
Not only did it make life much simpler, it also provided the enjoyment of watching the slow burn when the cabbie realized he couldn't get pissed off at a cop.
"I see you got the bomb these days," Ollie said pleasantly.
"Yes, sir," the cabbie said.
"Does that mean you'll be declaring war on America soon?”
"America is our friend," the cabbie said. "Bullshit," Ollie said.
"Truly, sir.”
"Even though we ain't sending you no more money?”
"I suppose we'll have to get by somehow," the cabbie said.
Had Ollie detected a slight touch of sarcasm there? One thing he hated among everything else he hated was baggy-pantsed foreigners trying to be clever.
"How you gonna get the bomb to the launching pad?" he asked. "Carry it on a donkey cart?" The cabbie said nothing. "Pack it on a camel?”