"Then perhaps you should sell yourself as well.”
A smile in his voice. A nod to the former hooker.
Sell yourself as well. We understand you were good at selling yourself.
"Look," she said, "I think I can raise million, but that's all. More or less.”
Mds o menos.
There was a silence on the line. Then: "You owe us a great deal more than half a mi More or less.”
"To begin with, I don't owe you or your big anything. If that money belongs to anyone, it to...”
"It belongs to whoever will kill you if you pay it.”
"Let's talk straight here, please," she "You're not going to kill me.”
"You're mistaken.”
"No, I'm not mistaken. You kill me, you don't any of the money. If I were you, I'd settle for the hun...”
“If I were you," he said, slowly and silkenb would recognize that there are worse things being dead.”
"Yes, I know that," she said.
"We thought you might know that.”
"I do. But I've only got so many arms and legs., "Y to cara," he said.
And paused meaningfully.
"Y tus pechos," he said.
And paused again.
"Y asi sucesivamente," he said.
i Her face... Her breasts ..
,. And so on.
The last three words, though spoken softly and casually - Y asi sucesivamenta implied unspeakable acts.
She was suddenly very frightened again.
"Look, you're right," she said, "it's true, I don't want anything to happen to me. But...”
"Then you should learn not to cut people.”
"If you're saying you're going to hurt me even if I do come up with the money...”
"I'm saying we'll surely hurt you if you don't come up with the money.
Is what I'm saying.”
"I understand that.”
"I hope so.”
"But what I'm saying is that it's impossible to come up with all of the money. Is what I'm saying.”
"Then that's too bad.”
"Look, wait a minute.”
"I'm still here.”
"How much time do I have here?”
"How much time do you need?”
"Even to raise the five hundred, I'd need a week, ten days.”
"That is out of the question.”
"Then how much time? Name a fucking amount of time I”
“Ah," he said.
Chastisingly. Scolding her for the language used. Tsk, tsk, tsk.
She said nothing for several seconds. Re control. Calming herself. Then she said, "I nee, talk to people who can turn assets into money. takes time. I have to know exactly how much have.”
“Wednesday," he said, and she had the he'd picked a deadline out of the air.
"I don't think I can manage that," she "That's not enough time.”
"It will have to be enough time.”
"I don't think you understand.”
"We understand completely.”
"No. Look, can you listen to me a Please? I want to pay you back, you understand that, I want this thing to be over and with. But...”
"So do we.”
"But you can't show up on someone's and expect them to raise two million dollars in.
"You tell me," he said.
"How much time I'll need?”
"Yes. Tell me.”
"You understand I can only raise half a would be imposs...”
"No, the full two million. How much time?”
"Say.”
"Can I get back to you?”
"We'll call you. Tell us when.”
"This is Sunday...”
"Yes, a day of rest.”
Sarcasm in his voice, the son of a bitch.
I'll have to make some calls tomorrow, find out how long it'll take.”
"Good. What time?”
"Can you call me at three-thirty? No later than that.”
"Why? Will your boyfriend be coming home?”
"Three-thirty," she said. "Please. But, you know, I really think you should prepare yourself for...”
And hesitated.
Silence.
He was waiting.
The silence lengthened.
"Because you know... I really meant it when I said...”
And again she hesitated.
Because she knew what he would say if she told him again that it was impossible to raise much more than half a million. He would threaten her with punishment, raise fears of acid or steel, promise her mutilation.
But the facts had to be stated.
"Listen," she said, "I'm being completely honest with you. I don't want to get hurt, but there's no way I can possibly raise more than half a million. Well, maybe a little more, I'm being honest with you, I hope you realize that, but two million is absolutely out of the question, I just can't do it, there I can turn half a million into two million overnigi There was another long silence.
And then he surprised her.
He did not threaten her again.
Instead, he offered a solution.
"There is a way," he said.
"No there “
“
“ "La St, he said. cocafna.”
And hung up.
Carella did not get back to the squadroom un almost two that Sunday afternoon, after extracti from Irene Brogan a promise that she would call fi housekeeper in San Diego as soon as she retumeff the hotel. He had previously asked her if she still h her brother's May twelfth letter. Irene said s thought it might be somewhere on her desk. The ci to the housekeeper was to ask her to look for tt letter. If she found it, she was to Fed Ex it to Carel at once. Irene seemed to understand why he want, to read the letter himself: a fresh eye, an emofior.
uninvolvement, a mind trained to search for nuan of meaning. But she assured him once again that h brother neither in his letter nor when she'd spok, to him on the telephone had revealed the name the woman with whom he was involved.
Meyer's note was waiting on Carella's desk.
It was typed on a D.D. form, but it was really memo and not a report as such. Informal and r, it detailed Andrew Hobbs's visit to the squadroom late last night (early this morning, to confess that he'd painted the pentagram the church gate and to explain that "it was not the .,vil who made him do it, but his mother Abby.”
Meyer's words. Touch of humor here at the old .even. The report ended with the suggestion that either Carella or Hawes talk to Schuyler Lutherson at the Church of the Bornless One.
Carella carried the memo to the filing cabinet, found the file for the Birney case, and dropped it into the manila folder. He remembered again that this Sunday. Even the hottest of cases got cold after few days without a lead. This case had been cold from the beginning. Nothing solid to pursue until this morning, when suddenly there was a woman in the priest's life. Solid enough, Carella suspected. But cause for murder? In this precinct, where looking cock-eyed at another man's wife could result in a pair of broken legs, a priest fucking around could very well provoke murder, yes. Perhaps even those Words a priest fucking around could incite riot.
He suspected that back in the good old days when jolly friars were tossing up the skirts of giggling peasant girls and tickling their fancies on haystacks religion wasn't taken quite as seriously as it was today. Perhaps something had been lost Over the centuries. Maybe priests weren't supposed to be gods, maybe only God was supposed to be God. But didn't God ever smile? Wouldn't perhaps find it comical that in a parish only blocks from a congregation that openly the Devil, one of His faithful servants was you find another way to describe it, Carella thou To me, he was fucking around.
He suddenly realized that Father indiscretion which was perhaps a better putting it made him enormously angry.
Cherchez la femme, he thought.
But first let's go find Bobby Corrente and ask what he knows about the events that took Easter Sunday.
Bobby Corrente was an even six feet tall and weighed at least a hundred and ninety pounds, bit of it lean, hard muscle. He had sand-colored and hazel-colored eyes, and he bore no resemblance to his father than a beanpole did to a hydrant. Carella figured his mother must have a prom queen. All clean good looks and charm, he rose from the stoop where he'd sitting with two girls who appeared to be a year younger than he was, fifteen, sixteen, in there.