Tommy lifted his bride’s veil and kissed her fleetingly and with much embarrassment. The organ music started again. Smiling, the veil pulled back onto the white crown nestled in her hair, Angela clutched Tommy’s arm and they started up the aisle, the photographer recording every inch of their progress.
In the rectory, the telephone began ringing.
The nun in the rectory held the door open for Steve Carella as he stepped into the small room. Standing by the telephone in the robes he’d worn during the ceremony, Father Paul said, “I knew it’d take a wedding to get you into the church, Steve. But I didn’t guess a phone call would bring you into the rectory.”
“Two things I never discuss are politics and religion,” Carella answered. “Is the call from the squad, Father?”
“A man named Meyer Meyer,” Father Paul said.
“Thank you,” Carella said, and he took the receiver from the priest’s hand. “Hello, Meyer. Steve.”
“Hello, boy. How goes the wedding?”
“So far, so good. The knot’s been tied.”
“I’ve been doing a little further checking on this Sokolin character. Are you still interested?”
“Very much so.”
“Okay. I checked with his parole officer. He’s been leading an exemplary life, working as a salesman in a department store downtown. But two weeks ago, he moved from Isola to Riverhead. I’ve got the address, Steve. From what the map tells me, it looks as if it’s eleven blocks from your father’s house.”
Carella thought for a moment and then said, “Meyer, will you do me a favor? We had an accident a little while ago that stank to high heaven. Will you put a pickup-and-hold on this character? I’d feel a hell of a lot safer.” He suddenly remembered he was in a church rectory and glanced sheepishly at Father Paul.
“Sure thing. It’s kind of slow around here, anyway. I may go out on it myself.”
“Will you let me know when you’ve got him? We’re heading for the photographer’s right now, but I’ll be at my father’s place in about an hour. You can reach me there.”
“Right. Kiss the bride for me, will you?”
“I will. Thanks again, Meyer.” He hung up.
Father Paul looked at him and said, “Trouble?”
“No. Nothing serious.”
“I’ve been told about the automobile accident,” he said. “Quite a freak occurrence.”
“Yes.”
“But there’s no trouble?”
“No.”
“Even though the accident, to quote you, stank to high heaven?”
Carella smiled. “Father,” he said, “you’ve got me inside the church, but you’re not going to get me into the confessional.” He shook hands with the priest. “It was a beautiful ceremony. Thank you, Father.”
Outside, the limousines were waiting.
Carella walked over to where Kling was standing with Teddy.
“That was Meyer,” he said. “I’ve got a pickup-and-hold on Sokolin. I think that’s wise, don’t you?”
“I suppose.”
Carella looked around. “Where’s our friend Jonesy?”
“He went back to the house.”
“Oh.”
“If you’re thinking what I’m thinking, don’t worry about it. Cotton left right after him.”
“Good.” He took Teddy’s arm. “Honey, you look about ready to drop. Come on. Get inside that nice air-cooled Cadillac.” He held the door open for her. “Some day,” he said, “when I get to be commissioner, I’m going to buy you one of these all for yourself.”
Ben Darcy and Sam Jones were talking to the caterers when Hawes and Christine pulled up in a taxicab. Hawes paid the driver, and then walked around to the back of the Carella house. A huge framework was in its last stages of construction at the far end of the plot, just inside the row of hedges that divided the Carella property from Birnbaum’s.
Jonesy stopped talking when he saw Christine Maxwell. Wearing an ice-blue chiffon, she rustled across the lawn clinging to Hawes’s arm, and Jonesy followed her progress through the grass with unabashed and open admiration. When they were close enough, his eyes still on Christine, he said, “I don’t believe we’ve met. My name is Sam Jones. Call me Jonesy.”
“I’m Cotton Hawes,” Hawes said. “This is Christine Maxwell.”
“Pleased to meet you,” he said, taking Christine’s hand. Belatedly, he added, “Both.”
“What’s this monster creation?” Hawes asked, indicating the huge wooden grid.
“For the fireworks display,” one of the caterers explained.
“It looks like the launching platform for a three-stage rocket,” Hawes commented, aware of the sledgehammer subtlety of Jonesy’s ogling and slightly rankled by it. “Are we trying for the moon?”
“We’ll be shooting off a few rockets,” the caterer replied humorlessly.
“When will this be?”
“As soon as it’s dark. This is going to be the goddamnedest wedding this neighborhood ever saw, you can bet on that.”
“Angela deserves it,” Darcy said.
“And Tommy, too,” Jonesy added, smiling at Christine. “Have you seen the mermaid, Miss Maxwell? Come, I’ll show it to you. They’ve already loaded the buckets of champagne. It’s fascinating.”
“Well...” Christine started, and she glanced hesitantly at Hawes.
“I’m sure Mr. Hawes won’t mind,” Jonesy said. “Come along.” He took her arm and led her to where the ice maiden lay on her side, protected from the sun by a shielding canopy. The base upon which she lay had been scooped out to form a frigid tub into which dozens of champagne bottles had been placed. It truly looked as if this was going to be one hell of a wedding. Hawes watched Christine amble away across the lawn, aware of a growing irritation within him. It was one thing to do a cotton-picking, bodyguarding favor, but it was another to have a girl snatched from right before your eyes.
“So what is this?” a voice beside him said. “The battleship Missouri?”
Hawes turned. The man standing before the fireworks scaffolding was short and slender with a balding pate fringed with white hair. His blue eyes held a merry twinkle. He studied the framework as if it were truly a wonder of the scientific age.
“I’m Birnbaum,” he said. “The neighbor. Who are you?”
“Cotton Hawes.”
They shook hands. “That’s an unusual name,” Birnbaum said. “Very unusual. Cotton Mather? The Puritan priest?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not a religious man, myself.”
“Neither am I.”
“Did you come from the wedding?”
“Yes,” Hawes said.
“Me, too. It was the first time in my life I’ve ever been inside a Catholic Church. I’ll tell you something. It’s a bubemeiseh.”
“What is?”
“That the walls will fall down if a Jew steps inside. I stepped inside and I stepped out again, and the walls — thank God — are still standing. Imagine if the walls had come down during my tsotskuluh’s wedding. A terrible thing to imagine! Oi, God, I would rather cut off my right arm. She looked lovely, didn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“A beautiful girl, Angela. I never had a daughter. I got a lawyer son, he’s now in Denver. My wife, poor soul, passed away three years ago. I’m alone in the world. Birnbaum. The neighbor. Well, at least I’m a neighbor, no?”
“A neighbor is a good thing to be,” Hawes said, smiling, liking the little man immensely.
“Certainly. But lest you think I’m a bum, I should tell you I am also a grocery store owner besides being a neighbor. Birnbaum’s Grocery. Right up the street. And I live over there. See the house? Been here for forty years and believe me when I first moved in people thought Jews had horns and tails. Well, times change, huh? It’s a good thing, thank God.” He paused. “I know both the children since they were born. Tommy and Angela. Like my own children. Both sweet. I love that little girl. I never had a daughter of my own, you know. So Tony’s having fireworks! My God, what a wedding this will be! I hope I live through it. Do you like my tuxedo?”