by Ed McBain
So many things could go wrong.
Would she be able to hear the lyrics clearly enough through the pickup tucked in her hair? Were the Channel Four sound people any good, and where the hell were they, anyway? She’d hate to be rap-ping “One-two, one-two, and through and through, the vorpal blade went snicker-snack!” and instead have the sound from the video telling the cameras and later tonight the world, “ ’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe.” Well, she’d got her start in karaoke clubs, she supposed she could lip-synch her way through tonight, which would be sort of karaoke in reverse, she supposed.
But what if somebody had spilled a drink or something squishy and sloppy on the floor? All Jonah had to do was lose his footing and his grip on her—his grip on himself, for that matter—for this whole thing to go out the window in three seconds flat, Tamar Valparaiso and the rapacious beast doing a comic pratfall in front of millions of viewers when they aired the tape on the Eleven O’Clock News. Goodbye dreams of rock stardom, goodbye little Russa-Mexicana-American girl making it huge in the big bad city and the wide wicked world.
“How do I look?” she asked Jonah.
“Hot,” he said, the friggin faggot.
Tamar’s father used to go to church in Mexico every Sunday morning and pray for something to eat the next day. Tamar’s mother was born in a Communist country and didn’t know from religion or from praying.
Tamar wasn’t praying now, either.
But she was wishing with all her might that after tonight she would be the biggest fucking diva who ever came down the pike. “So don’t let anything go wrong,” she whispered to Whomever. Tamar’s ambition was to bury J. Lo, bury Britney, bury Brandy, bury Shakira, bury Ashanti, bury Pink, bury Sheryl Crowe and Christina Aguilera and Michelle Branch, bury each and every one of them, bury them all.
Was that such a crime?
THE SUBJECT MATTER had finally got around to ambition and crime.
Ollie and Patricia were sitting out on the restaurant’s wide verandah, looking out over the River Harb and the twinkling lights of the next state. Further uptown, they could see the warmer, somehow cozier lights of the exclusive community, Smoke Rise, and yet further uptown the lights of the Hamilton Bridge spanning the river, a yacht coming under the bridge now, all aglow with lights itself, and moving steadily downstream. Patricia was drinking a crème de menthe on the rocks. Ollie was drinking a Courvoisier straight up.
“My ambition is to become first a detective…” Patricia was saying.
“Ah yes,” Ollie said.
“…and next a detective on the Rape Squad.”
“Why the Rape Squad?”
“Because I think that’s the worst crime there is.”
“I tend to agree,” Ollie said, although he didn’t know whether he actually agreed or not.
Actually, he probably thought killing little girls was a worse crime. But when a woman who looked as beautiful as Patricia did in the moonlight reflected from the water told you she thought rape was the worst crime there was, then it seemed appropriate to agree with her, ah yes.
“Why is that?” Patricia asked.
Not that she doubted him. But he’d seen so much, and knew so much…
“Because it isn’t fair,” Ollie said.
“Who says it has to be fair?” Patricia asked, and smiled, and said, “My mother used to tell me that whenever I complained about anything. But you’re right. Rape isn’t fair. If men had to worry about rape all the time, the crime would carry the death penalty.”
“Do you worry about rape all the time?”
“Not since I became a cop. Not since they let me pack a gun.”
“Are you packing now?” he asked.
“Always,” she said, and tapped her handbag with one painted fingernail. “Even when I go to bed, Josie is right there on the night table beside me. But before? When I was a kid…”
“Josie?”
“The piece. I call her Josie. Doesn’t yours have a name?”
“No.”
“Let’s name it.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s a trusted friend.”
Ollie wondered if the conversation was taking a sexual turn. He knew some guys who named their cocks. Women, too. Gave names to their boyfriends’ cocks. Louie. Or Harry. Or Pee Wee in some cases. He didn’t think that’s where Patricia was going here, but you never knew. He’d held her awfully close on the dance floor.
“I wouldn’t know where to begin,” he said. “Besides, I don’t think of it as a trusted friend.”
“Have you ever had to use it?”
“Oh sure.”
“Ever kill a man?”
He hesitated.
“Yes? No?”
“A woman,” he said.
Patricia looked at him.
“She was coming at me with a shotgun. Stoned out of her mind. I shot her once in the thigh, she kept coming. An inch closer, she’d have blown my head off. I dropped her.”
“Wow,” Patricia said.
“Yeah.”
“The same piece you carry now?”
“No. This was when I was a patrolman. It was a thirty-eight back then.”
“What do you carry now?”
“A Glock nine.”
“Me, too.”
“Heavy for a woman.”
“Regulation.”
“Josie, huh?”
“Is what I call her.”
“So what should I call mine?”
“You think of a name.”
“Nah, come on.”
“Go ahead.”
“I’m not good at this.”
“How do you know? Give it a try.”
Ollie furrowed his brow.
“What’s your best friend’s name?” she asked.
“I don’t have a best friend,” he said.
“Well…any friend,” she said.
“I don’t have any friends,” Ollie said.
Patricia looked at him again.
“Then how about someone you really trust?”
Ollie thought about this for several moments.
Back inside the restaurant, the band began playing again.
“Steve,” he said at last.
“So name it Steve.”
“I don’t think so,” he said.
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. I guess it wouldn’t be professional. Naming a weapon.”
“Do you think I’m unprofessional?”
“Hey, no, I think you’re very professional. You’re a good cop, and I think you’re going to make a very good detective.”
“You think so?”
“I really do. The Rape Squad’ll be lucky to have you.”
“What I was saying about rape before…”
“Yes, tell me. Would you like another one of those?”
“Are you going to have one?”
“If you are.”
“I think I’d like one, yes.”
“Good, me, too,” Ollie said, and signaled to the waiter.
“What I was saying is that in this city, rape was a constant concern of mine. Because, you know, well, I was growing up to be fairly attractive…”
“Beautiful, in fact,” Ollie said.
“I wasn’t fishing for a compliment.”
“But you are beautiful, Patricia.”
“Well, thanks, but what…”
“A cream dee mint,” Ollie said to the waiter, “and another of these cognacs.”
“Yes, sir,” the waiter said, and walked off.
“What I was trying to say,” Patricia said, “is, for example, as a young girl in this city, I never felt safe, never. For example, we’re enjoying a few drinks together here, and I feel perfectly safe with you…”
“Well, thank you,” Ollie said, “ah yes, m’dear. And I feel perfectly safe with you, too.”
Patricia laughed.
“But when I was in my twenties, I’d be out with some guy…well, even l
ately, for that matter, before I became a cop. I mean this isn’t something that just goes away, it’s a constant with a woman. I’d be having a drink with some guy…”
“How old are you, anyway?” Ollie asked.
“Oh, gee, you’re not supposed to ask that.”
“Why not? I’m thirty-eight,” he said.
“I was thirty in February.”
“February what?” he asked, and took out his notebook.
“You gonna write it down?” she said, surprised.
“Sure.”
“Why?”
“So I can buy you a present. Provided it ain’t too close to Valentine’s Day.”
“No, it’s February twenty-seventh.”
“Good. So then I can get you two presents,” he said.
“Nobody ever gave me a Valentine’s Day present,” Patricia said.
“Well, you wait and see,” he said, and scribbled her name and the date of her birthday in his book.
“Crème de menthe for the lady,” the waiter said, “and a Courvoisier for the gentleman.”
“Thank you,” Ollie said.
“My pleasure, sir,” the waiter said, and smiled, and walked off again.
“Cheers,” Ollie said.
“Cheers,” she said.
They both drank.
“Gee, I still feel safe,” Ollie said.
“Me, too,” she said, and grinned. “But what I was saying, Oll, is that before I became a cop, I’d be having a drink with some guy who took me out, or even just standing with some guy who was chatting me up in a bar, and I’d all at once be on my guard. Like don’t drink too much, Patricia, watch out, Patricia, this guy may be the son of a bitch who’ll rape you, excuse my French, Oll. Or coming home late at night on the subway, cold sober, I’d always be afraid some two-hundred-pound guy was going to pounce on me and beat me up and rape me. I’m five-seven…”
“I know,” Ollie said, and smiled. “That’s a good height.”
“Thank you. And I weigh a hundred and twenty pounds. What chance would I have against some guy’s been lifting weights in the prison gym? That’s why I’m glad Josie’s in my bag. Anybody gets wise with me, he’s got to deal not only with me but with Josie, too.”
“I’d sure hate to meet you in a dark alley,” Ollie said.
“You would? I take that as a compliment, Oll.”
“You know something?”
“What?”
“Nobody ever called me ‘Oll’ before. I mean before tonight. I mean before you did.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Well…is that all right? I mean…‘Oll’ sounds so natural. I mean…it seems to fit you.”
“Oll,” he said, trying it.
“Oll,” she said, and shrugged tentatively.
“Here’s to it,” he said, and raised his glass. “Oll.”
“Here’s to it,” she said, and clinked her glass against his.
The band was playing “Tenderly.”
“Wanna dance again?” Patricia asked.
“Yes, I would,” Ollie said.
“You’re a good dancer, Oll,” she said.
“Oll,” he said, testing the name again, tasting it like wine.
“Is it okay?” she asked.
“Yes, it’s just fine, Patricia,” he said, and led her inside and onto the dance floor.
CHANNEL FOUR’S OWN private motor launch pulled up alongside just as the River Princess slowed her speed and lowered the loading platform and ladder on her port side. Somewhat a celebrity in her own right, more for her spectacular legs than for her news coverage, Honey Blair drew a sizable crowd of somewhat-celebrities themselves to that side of the boat, where—followed by her crew of three—she climbed to the main deck, an abundance of leg and thigh showing in the short leather mini she was wearing. Honey was accustomed to dressing somewhat skimpily for her roving reporter assignments on the Eleven O’Clock News, a penchant that made her one of the station’s favorites. Tonight, to complement the short blue leather mini, she was wearing calf-high navy leather boots with not-quite stiletto heels, and an ice-blue, long-sleeved, clingy silk blouse, its pearl buttons unbuttoned to show just the faintest shadowed beginnings of her cleavage. Honey normally looked cool and swift and sexy. But in tonight’s crowd, she resembled somebody’s maiden aunt from Frozen Stalks, Idaho.
Tamar Valparaiso was scheduled to be taped at ten P.M., which would give Honey time enough to get back to the studio, do some quick editing, and get the piece on the air by eleven-twenty, after they’d covered all the local fires, murders, political scandals, and a weensy bit of international news so that the channel wouldn’t seem like just another hick television station here in one of America’s biggest cities. Honey’s taped segment would be followed by Jim Garrison doing the day’s sports, which meant that a lot of male viewers in their thirties, a large part of Tamar’s target audience, would be watching her do “Bandersnatch” for two or three minutes, after which Honey would interview her, all panting and sweaty—Tamar, not Honey—for another minute or so. That was a hell of a big bite of television time, and don’t think Binkie Horowitz and everyone else at Bison didn’t realize it.
It was one thing to have the video premiere on all four music channels yesterday. It was another to get coverage like this on one of the big three networks, during the Eleven O’Clock News, no less, following the Saturday night movie. Binkie had every right to feel proud of himself for landing the spot.
Now that Honey was here, Binkie’s job was to make sure she was a) comfortable and b) well prepared for the short interview that would follow Tamar’s performance. Honey was meticulous about not drinking on the job, so while her crew set up their cameras alongside the polished dance floor where Tamar and her partner would be performing, Binkie plied Honey with rich dessert and hot tea while filling her in on Tamar’s background, such as it was.
“She comes from karaoke,” he said, “can you imagine? Used to perform in clubs in southwest Texas, her father’s Mexican, you know, her mother’s Russian. Nice little background story there, by the way, how they met. He’s a vacuum cleaner salesman, her mother’s a beautician, this is a real American success story, immigrants coming here from different parts of the world, raising an all-American girl who’s poised on the edge of stardom—do I detect a skeptical look on your face?”
Honey raised her shoulders and her eyebrows.
“My dear woman,” Binkie said, “Tamar Valparaiso is like nothing you have ever seen before, just you wait. She is new, she is original, dare I say she is seminal? She already had vibrato when she was eight, she has a five-octave range, and she can sight-read any piece of music you put in front of her, including opera. She’s not only going to be the biggest diva to explode on the CHR-pop scene in decades, she’s also going to be a big movie…”
“What’s CHR-pop?” Honey asked.
“Contemporary Hit Radio,” Binkie said by rote.
“You don’t want me to use that word on the air, do you?” Honey asked.
“What word is that?” Binkie asked. “Radio?”
“Diva.”
“Why not?”
“It’s derogatory. It’s customarily used to describe a temperamental opera singer.”
“Not in rock music, it’s not.”
“You really want me to call your girl a diva?”
“That’s what she’s gonna be after tonight,” Binkie said. “Once ‘Bandersnatch’ hits the charts…”
“Why’d she choose a Lewis Carroll poem?”
“Ask her, why don’t you?”
“I will. Is she smart?”
“Smarter than most of them,” he said, which said it all.
Honey looked at her watch.
“Where’s the Ladies’?” she asked. “I want to touch up my makeup.”
It was twenty minutes to ten.
BECAUSE PATRICIA had been leaving directly from work earlier tonight, she’d changed in the precinct swing room and met O
llie at the restaurant. Now, at a quarter to ten that Saturday, she sat beside Ollie on the front seat of his Chevy Impala, driving uptown on the River Harb Highway, watching the lights of a yacht that had stopped dead out there on the water, and was now apparently riding her anchor. Music from a station that played what it called “Smoothjazz” flooded the automobile.
“By the way,” Ollie said, “have you thought of a song you want me to learn for you?”
“I’ve been trying to think of one all week,” Patricia said.
“Have you come up with anything?”
“Yes. ‘Spanish Eyes.’ ”
“I don’t think I know that one.”
“Not the one the Backstreet Boys did on Millennium,” Patricia said. “The one I’m talking about is an older one. It was a hit when my mother was a teenager.”
“The Backstreet Boys, huh?” Ollie said.
He had no idea who she meant.
“Even they’re on the way out,” Patricia said. “In fact, who knows how long ’NSync’s gonna last. These boy bands come and go, you know.”
“Oh, I know,” Ollie said.
“But I’m talking about the old ‘Spanish Eyes,’ ” she said, and sang the first line for him. “ ‘Blue Spanish eyes…teardrops are falling from your Spanish eyes…’ That one.”
“I’ll ask Helen.”
“Who’s Helen?”
“My piano teacher. Helen Hobson. Any song I tell her I want to learn, she finds the sheet music for me. I’ll ask her to get ‘Spanish Eyes.’ ”
“But not the one the Backstreet Boys did.”
“Who did the other one? The one you want me to learn?”
“Al Martino. He recorded it in 1966, I wasn’t even born yet, my mother was still a teenager. She still plays it day and night, that’s how I happen to know it.”