At three-thirty in the morning, Althea deary's street was a lot livelier than Ollie expected it would be. An all-night Korean grocery store stood ablaze with light on one corner. An all-night diner, equally incandescent, occupied the corner opposite. In a way, these two bustling places of business were good news. They widened the field of possible suspects beyond the invisible John Bridges; Althea could have left the club alone, got on and off the
bus alone, and—in either the diner or the grocery store— met the man who'd later killed her. On the other hand, did Ollie really need or want a wider field? Why not expand the number of suspects to include the entire city, the entire state, the entire nation? Why not work this fucking case for the rest of his life?
He almost went home to bed.
This was, after all, just a little black hooker here.
Instead, he went into the grocery store, and sauntered over to the cash register with his coat open and his belly and the butt of the nine showing, hoping the smiling idiot behind the counter would think he was about to hold up the joint, heh heh. Inject a little humor here, right? Throw a minor scare into these slopes here, while never forgetting the magnitude of the mission, ah yes.
"Let me talk to the manager," he said.
The manager or the owner or whoever he was came over grinning nervously.
"You know this girl?" Ollie asked.
The man looked at the picture.
"She live aroun corner," he said.
"Right. Ever see her?"
"She killed," he said.
"When's the last time you saw her?" Ollie asked.
"Before kill."
"When before?"
"Night before. She come in, buy milk."
"What time was that?"
"Same now."
"Three-thirty, around then?"
"T'ree-t'irty, yes."
"Was she alone?"
"Alone, yes."
"Say anything to you?"
"Say hello, goodbye."
"Did you thank her for buying the milk?"
"What?"
"Forget it. How long was she in here?" "Fi' minute. Go across street diner." "Thanks," Ollie said, and winked. "English word," he explained, and walked out.
The diner at this hour was packed with what Ollie called "denizens," which in his dictionary—but no one else's— was the antonym of "citizens." Here were the predators, the occupiers of the night, the people who woke up at midnight and began stalking the city like the wild animals they were. White, black, Latino, they all talked too loud and looked too tough till you shoved a nine in their face. The minute Ollie walked in, they knew he was a cop. To make the point clearer, he tossed open his coat and jacket, flashing the nine again. He didn't want to sit on a stool with his back to the door. He took a booth in the corner instead, where he could watch the counter as well as anyone coming in or going out. He lifted a menu from where it was nesting between the napkin holder and the salt and pepper shakers, studied it briefly, and signaled to the waitress. She was thirty-three or -four, Ollie guessed, not a beautiful woman, but there was something very sexy about her weariness.
"Bring me two burgers and a large order of fries," he told her.
"We only got one size order of fries," she told him.
"What size is that?"
"It don't have a designation. It's just the fries we serve as a side order."
"Okay, bring me two of them."
"They're just the normal size of the side order."
"Good, bring me two of the normal size."
"I mean, that's not their designation or anything, they don't have a designation. That's just the size they are."
"That's fine," Ollie said. "Two orders. Whatever size they are."
"Two burgers, two sides of fries," the waitress said, and walked off to place the order. When she came back some five minutes later, Ollie's shield was sitting on the table. He pointed to it, winked, and said, "When it quiets down a little, I want to talk to you."
The waitress looked at the shield.
"Sure," she said. "I have a break at four. I'll bring myself a cup of coffee."
"What would you say if I told you I know how to play piano?" he asked.
"Do you?"
"I'm gonna learn."
"Good for you," she said. "I'll see you later."
She came back again at a few minutes past four. She offered him a cigarette, lighted one for herself when he refused, and then sipped at the coffee she'd carried with her to the table. Stretching her legs, she said, "So who killed who?"
"How'd you guess?"
"You look like Homicide."
"Bite your tongue," Ollie said.
"I used to date a Homicide cop."
"Did he wear black underwear?"
"No. Black everything else though."
"What's your name?" Ollie asked.
"Hildy. What's yours?"
"Ollie Weeks. I work out of the Eight-Eight."
"Okay."
"Hildy, you prob'ly know a girl was killed around the corner here last month. Girl named Althea Cleary."
"Yeah."
"You know her?"
"Yeah. She used to come in here all the time. I think she was a dancer or something. Either that or a hooker.
She'd come in here two, three in the morning almost every night."
"Was she in here the night she got killed?"
"I don't even know when that was."
"November ninth."
"You're still lookin for whoever done it, huh?"
"Still lookin."
"November ninth," she said, thinking.
"Would've been a Tuesday night."
"I can't say for sure."
"Do you remember any night this month when she might've come in here with a guy? Some kind of Jamaican, tall, easy grin. Would've had a knife scar down the left-hand side of his face."
"Oh yeah," she said, nodding.
"You remember him?"
"Mean-looking son of a bitch. Light complexion, kind of bluish-green eyes, lots of white back there someplace. But Althea didn't come in with him. He was here already."
"Tell me what happened."
"He walked in, it must've been two-thirty or so," Hildy said. "First thing I noticed was the scar. Well, hell, you couldn't miss it. You see lots of knife scars up here, but this one was a beaut. What you don't see much of up here is Jamaicans, though. You get all colors of the rainbow up here, but this ain't what you'd call a Jamaican neighborhood. That's further uptown, near the ballpark, you know? Minute he asked for a cup of coffee, I caught the Jamaican speech. You know how they sound. Cop of coffee ond a scrombled egg son'wich," she said, trying to sound Jamaican but failing miserably; Ollie knew because he had such a finely tuned ear. "Anyway, Althea didn't come in till sometime later."
"You knew her by name?"
"Oh sure. She was a regular."
"How about the Jamaican? Did he give you a name?"
"Nope."
"Who made the first move?"
"You mean him or Althea? Actually, it was him. She took a seat in one of the booths, ordered whatever it was, I forget. He wandered over, introduced himself, sat down."
"You didn't hear a name when he introduced himself, did you?"
"Nope."
"John Bridges?"
"Nope. Took off his hat, though."
"Polite."
"Oh yes."
"Curly black hair, right?"
"Well, I didn't notice if it was curly, but it was black, all right."
"He seem gay to you?"
"Gay? Hell, no."
"So what happened with the two of them?"
"Was she a hooker?" Hildy asked.
"Not officially. She worked in a topless joint downtown."