“It’s very nice,” Hawes said.
“The least I could do was rent a tuxedo when Tony’s daughter got married. It fits a little snug, don’t you think?”
“No, it looks fine.”
“Well, I’m not as slender as I used to be. Too much easy living. I got two clerks in my grocery store now. It’s not easy to buck the supermarkets. But I get by. Get by? Look how fat I’m getting. What do you do for a living?”
“I’m a theatrical agent,” Hawes said, relying upon the earlier fabrication. If someone meant to injure Tommy Giordano, he did not think it wise to advertise his profession.
“That’s a good business. Is Miss Maxwell in show business?”
“Yes,” he lied again. “She’s a dancer.”
“I thought so. A beautiful girl. But I’m partial to blondes.” He looked across the lawn. “I guess Jonesy isn’t. He’s left her.”
Hawes turned. Christine was walking back toward the fireworks platform. Alone. Jonesy was nowhere in sight. It suddenly occurred to him that Ben Darcy had disappeared, too.
I’m a fine cop, Hawes thought. I stand here talking to a grocer while the boys I’m supposed to watch vanish into the woodwork.
“You should take a look at the mermaid,” Christine said. “She’s quite lovely.”
“Where’d your escort go?” Hawes asked.
Christine shrugged. “Said there was something he had to take care of.” She paused. “I didn’t inquire further. I didn’t think it would be ladylike.” She paused again. “He’s rather cute, don’t you think?”
“Adorable,” Hawes said, and he wondered where both Jonesy and Darcy had gone.
And he hoped it was not too far.
Chapter 6
The photographer’s shop was not too far from the Carella house in Riverhead. In fact, a fairly slow driver could make the journey in less than five minutes if he stopped at each FULL STOP sign on the way.
The photographer was called Jody Lewis, and a sign across the front of his shop read JODY’S simply because he did not wish to name his place LEWIS’S or LEWIS’, both of which he was certain would be mistakenly read as just plain LEWIS. The shop was a simple one-story brick building with a plate-glass front window behind which were displayed the photographer’s previous efforts. Across the street from the shop, sitting back some twenty-five feet from the sidewalk, was a two-story frame house. Six windows faced the street side of that house. From a window on the second floor of the house, the photographer’s shop was clearly visible.
The man stood at the window, peering across the street at the shop. The cars had not yet arrived. That was good. That gave him plenty of time to set up. He lighted a cigar and then crossed the room to where the rifle was standing against the wall.
The rifle was a Winchester Model 70 target rifle that had been developed to meet the requirements of all long-range, highpower target shooting, and long-range shooting at small game. The stock was ample in size and weight, with a large butt stock, a well-rounded comb, and a large full pistol grip curving close to the guard. The gun also featured a target butt plate and a long, wide beavertail forestock.
He picked up the gun and studied it, the cigar smoke trailing up past his face.
A telescopic sight was mounted to the gun.
The sight was a blued steel tube, one inch in diameter, eleven and a quarter inches in length. It weighed only nine and a half ounces and was adjustable for internal windage and elevation with either a friction lock or a quarter-inch click.
The man carried the gun to the window and rested it on the window sill. He focused the sight on the door of Jody’s shop, so that the crosshairs were on the center of the doorway.
Then he sat back to wait.
The two limousines pulled up before he’d been waiting five minutes.
He pulled back the bolt and slammed it home, rested the gun on the window sill again, and took careful aim at the entrance to the shop. He looked up from the sight once to make sure he knew which of the people coming from the cars was Tommy Giordano.
Then he waited again.
Tommy stepped into the door of the shop.
The man’s finger began to tighten on the trigger. And then Tommy pulled his bride to him, her back to the street, kissing her soundly. The finger hesitated. Tommy pulled her into the shop. The moment was gone.
Cursing, the sniper stubbed out his cigar and prepared to wait for their exit.
Jody Lewis was a dwarf of a man who looked like something that had popped out of a trick box camera when the shutter was clicked. Bouncing around his shop with undiminished energy, he said, “These are the only posed pictures we’ll take. Of the bride and groom. This is your story, the bride’s and groom’s. That’s why I don’t want any posed shots of the best man or the maid of honor. Who needs them? This is your story. That’s what it’ll say on the cover of the album. ‘Our Wedding Day.’ Not the best man’s wedding day, but the groom’s. Not the maid of honor’s, but the bride’s. And all I want here in the studio with the good lights is one perfect picture of the lovely bride, God bless her, and one perfect picture of the handsome groom, and one of you together. And that’s all. And then we go off to the reception. But is that the end of Jody Lewis? Not by a long shot. Not by a closeup, either. I’ll be with you every minute of the way, taking pictures of you when you least expect it. Click, click, click goes my shutter. A candid record of your wedding day. Right to the hotel, right to a shot of Tommy carrying you over the threshold, and you putting your shoes in the hallway. And then back to develop and print, so that when you return from your lovely honeymoon, you’ll have this candid album titled ‘Our Wedding Day’ as a keepsake forever, as a memento of events you might otherwise forget. Who can remember all the little things that have happened or are going to happen today? Nobody has a memory like that except a camera. And I am a camera! Me, Jody Lewis, from the play and movie of the same name. Now sit right here, little ones. The two of you together. That’s it. Look as if you love each other, I’m joking, God only knows you’re crazy in love with each other, that’s it, smile a little, Tommy, my God, don’t look so serious, the girl loves you. That’s better. Take his hand, Angela. That’s the girl, now look over there, not at the camera, over there where the picture’s hanging on the wall, that’s it, hold it, click! That’s going to be beautiful Now turn a little on the seat, Tommy, that’s it, and put your arms around her waist, oh she’s nice to hold, my friend, that’s it, don’t blush, you’re married now, that’s it, now hold it, hold it...”
“How do you feel, Teddy?” Carella asked.
Gently, Teddy touched the mound that began just below her breasts. Then she rolled her eyes heavenward and pulled a weary face.
“It’ll be over soon,” he said. “Is there anything you want? A glass of water or something?”
Teddy shook her head.
“Massage your back?”
She shook her head again.
“Know I love you?”
Teddy grinned and squeezed his hand.
The woman who answered the door at the private house in Riverhead was in her late fifties and didn’t care. She wore a wrinkled housedress and scuffed house-slippers. Her hair hung limply on her head, as if it had followed its owner’s directive and given up the struggle.
“What do you want?” she said. She pierced Meyer and O’Brien with eyes chipped from green agate.