by McBain, Ed
“So tell me,” Ollie said, “where does this guy Sonny Cole live?”
“I got no idea,” Mendez said.
He was one of these Dominicans who thought he was handsome as hell, black hair slicked back, little toothbrush mustache under his nose, wearing a tanktop shirt bulging with muscles he probably got lifting weights in the slammer.
“Man comes in your club …”
“First time I ever saw him.”
“He killed a cop’s father, you know that?” Ollie said.
“No, I didn’t know that.”
“That makes it very serious,” Ollie said. “He maybe killed Juju, too, which is no great loss, but justice must be served, hm? I’m eager to talk to him. Find out where the two of them went when they left here. Find out what they talked about. Find out did Sonny shoot him in the head, what do you think?”
“About what?”
“About did Sonny shoot him?”
“I don’t know what Sonny did. He never came back here since that Friday night. I don’t know where he lives, or what he does for a living. You’re pissing up the wrong tree.”
“Maybe so. Can I have another beer? This is very nice beer.”
Mendez opened another Heineken for him.
“You think he lives in the neighborhood?” he asked.
“I’m pretty sure he don’t.”
“How you suppose he got here?”
“He came looking for Juju.”
“I didn’t say why, I said how.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“Transportation,” Ollie said.
Mendez looked at him.
“Everybody has to have a means of transportation. He comes all the way up here to Hightown, how did he get here? Did he walk? Did he take the subway? Did he ride a bus? Did he come in a tax …”
“He drove here,” Mendez said.
Ollie put down the beer bottle.
“How do you know that?”
“I saw his car.”
“What kind of car?”
“A Honda.”
“What color?”
“Green.”
“You didn’t happen to see the license plate number, did you?”
“No. Why would I look at the license plate?”
“Anything peculiar about the car? Dented fender? Broken taillight, anything that might identify it?”
“Not that I saw.”
“When was this?”
“That I saw the car?”
“Yeah.”
“Friday night. When he came back to the club lookin for Tirana.”
“The hooker, yeah.”
“She’s a manicurist.”
“I’m sure she does great nails. That’s when you saw the car, huh?”
“Yeah. There was a parking ticket on the windshield. He tore it up and drove off.”
Bingo, Ollie thought.
Back at the precinct, Ollie called the One-Oh-Seven and asked for a kick-up on parking tickets written Friday night, August 28, targeting a green Honda parked in front of the Club Siesta. One of the sergeants there didn’t get back to him until three o’clock. He informed Ollie that the green Honda was an Accord registered to a woman named Coralee Hubert, who lived at 1114 Clarendon Avenue, in a better section of Diamondback, such as it was. Ollie took a cab uptown. He didn’t like to drive because the steering wheel and his belly were always in contention. Besides, when he took a cab, he charged it to squadroom petty cash, and if anybody questioned this, he told him where to go. There was another benefit to taking taxis. It enabled him to enter into lively discussion with Pakistani drivers.
The first thing Ollie always did with a Pakistani cabdriver—or for that matter, any cabdriver who looked like a fuckin foreigner, which was only every other cabdriver in the city—was show his shield. This was so there’d be no heated arguments later on; some of these fuckin camel jockeys were very sensitive.
“Police officer,” he said at once, flashing the tin. “I’m going to 1114 Clarendon Avenue.”
The driver said nothing.
“If you heard me, blink,” Ollie said.
“I heard you, sir.”
“Good. Do you know where Clarendon Avenue is?”
“I know where it is, sir.”
“Terrific, we’re already ahead of the game. I’m in kind of a hurry, Abdul, but I wouldn’t want you to speed.”
The driver’s name was Munsaf Azhar, displayed on a red card to the left of the yellow cab license, but Ollie called every Paki cabdriver Abdul. Not only did it make life much simpler, it also provided the enjoyment of watching the slow burn when the cabbie realized he couldn’t get pissed off at a cop.
“I see you got the bomb these days,” Ollie said pleasantly.
“Yes, sir,” the cabbie said.
“Does that mean you’ll be declaring war on America soon?”
“America is our friend,” the cabbie said.
“Bullshit,” Ollie said.
“Truly, sir.”
“Even though we ain’t sending you no more money?”
“I suppose we’ll have to get by somehow,” the cabbie said.
Had Ollie detected a slight touch of sarcasm there? One thing he hated—among everything else he hated—was baggy-pantsed foreigners trying to be clever.
“How you gonna get the bomb to the launching pad?” he asked. “Carry it on a donkey cart?”
The cabbie said nothing.
“Pack it on a camel?”
“We have means of transportation, sir.”
“Oh, I’m sure you do. Must be yellow cabs all over the country, same as here. Big industrialized nation got the bomb now, can blow everybody to bits.”
“We live in a bad neighborhood, sir.”
“Bullshit,” Ollie said. “Everybody lives in a bad neighborhood. This is a bad neighborhood right here. You see any nuclear bombs in this neighborhood?”
“We have powerful enemies, sir.”
“Ah, yes, m’boy, I’m certain you do, and what a pity it is. Are you in a hurry to get home now that your country’s got the bomb? Go defend your nation against all these powerful enemies?”
“I am in no hurry, sir.”
“I’ll bet you’re not. What’d you live in there, a fuckin mud hut?”
“I had a proper apartment, sir.”
“I’ll bet you made a fortune there, driving a yellow cab all over the place.”
“We are a poor country, sir, that is true.”
“But rich enough to build a fuckin bomb, huh?”
“We are only trying to protect ourselves, sir. America has the bomb, too, you know.”
“Oh, do we? But in America we don’t marry off our six-year-old daughters, do we?”
“You’re thinking of India, sir.”
“Gee, is that India? Where they marry off their six-year-old daughters to their eight-year-old cousins? I thought it was Pakistan. Pakistan must be the place where you wipe your ass with your left hand, is that Pakistan? The unclean hand?”
“We are a proud nation, sir. And we are proud to have built the bomb, yes, sir.”
“Now all you got to do is use it, right? That should make you real proud. Two big industrialized nations in a hurry to blow up the world. It’s just ahead there, Abdul. Clarendon Avenue.”
“I know the street, sir.”
“Oh, I’m sure you do. I’ll bet you could even get a job driving a cab in London, you know die streets so good.”
The cabbie pulled to the curb in front of 1114. The fare was six dollars and ten cents. Ollie gave him ten dollars and told him to take seven and give him a receipt. The cabbie gave him a receipt and three dollars in change. Ollie opened the door. There was not a word from the driver.
“What language do you speak in Pakistan?” Ollie asked.
“Urdu or Hindi,” the cabbie said. “Why do you ask, sir?”
“Is there a word for ‘Thanks’ in those languages?”
“Sir?”
“Because it’
s the custom with big nuclear powers to say thanks when somebody gives you a fuckin dollar tip on a six-dollar ride. Or are you too busy buildin bombs?”
“I said thank you, sir.”
“Bullshit,” Ollie said, and got out, and left the door on the curb side open so the driver would have to get out of the cab to come around and close it.
1114 Clarendon was a six-story brick in a row of similar buildings. Ollie checked the mailboxes in the entry, and found one for an L. Hilbert in apartment 2A. He hit all the bell buttons under the mailboxes, heard a chorus of answering buzzers and pushed open the inside door. This was a nice quiet building, no cooking smells, no smells of piss in the hallway. He climbed to the second floor, found 2A at the top of the stairs, looked for a bell button, found none, and knocked on the door.
“Yes?” a woman’s voice called.
“Police,” he said.
“What?”
“Police, ma’am, would you open the door, please?”
“Police?” the woman said.
“Yes, ma’am.”
He waited. He knocked again. The door opened almost at once. A girl who couldn’t have been older than twenty, twenty-one, was standing there in jeans and a cotton T-shirt.
“Coralee Hilbert?” he said.
“Coral,” she said.
“Okay to come in, Coral?”
“Why?” she said.
“You own a green Honda Accord with the license plate WU 3200?”
“I do.”
“Like to talk to you about a violation, ma’am. Is it okay to come in?”
“Let me see your badge,” she said.
“Shield,” he corrected.
“What?” she said.
“Never mind,” he said, and took out the leather fob and showed her his gold and blue-enameled shield with the word DETECTIVE in an arc over the city’s seal.
“A detective?” she said, surprised. “What kind of violation is this?”
“Just a parking ticket, miss,” he said, “nothing to worry about,” and closed the door behind him. “You know anybody named Sonny Cole?”
They were standing in a small kitchen in a neat apartment, living room beyond, doors leading off to what he supposed were two bedrooms. Windows facing south. Afternoon sunlight streaming in. The place hummed with air-conditioning. It was cool and clean and pleasant. He wondered if the girl was a hooker.
“What about him?” she asked.
“Was he driving your car this past Friday night?”
“He’s been driving my car for almost two weeks now.”
“How come?”
“I lent it to him.”
“What’s your relationship with him, miss?”
“We’re friends.”
“How long have you known him?”
“About three months.”
“And you loaned him your car?”
“He’s a good driver.”
“Must be. Parked in a no-parking zone, must be an excellent driver.”
“So what’s the big deal? A parking ticket? They send out detectives on parking tickets?”
“You know anyone named Juju Judell?”
“No.”
“Sonny ever mention him to you?”
“No.”
“When’s the last time you saw Sonny?”
“He stops by every now and then.”
“When’s the last time he stopped by?”
“Coupla days ago.”
“Did he happen to stop by on Friday night?”
“No.”
“This past Friday night. Didn’t stop by then?”
“No.”
“When did he stop by?”
“Sunday?”
“Well, was it or wasn’t it?”
“I just told you.”
“You made it sound like a question.”
“No, it was Sunday. We went to the street fair on Culver.”
“He isn’t living here, is he?”
“No, I live here with my mother.”
“What do you do for a living, miss?”
“I’m a student.#8221;
“You’re not a manicurist?”
“A manicurist? What?”
“Do you know where Sonny lives?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Never been to his apartment?”
“Never.”
“He just stops by here, is that it?”
“Yes.”
“Gets his nails done, right?”
“What?”
“Where do you go to school, miss?”
“Ramsey U.”
“Studying what?”
“Communications.”
“Learning to communicate, huh?”
“Learning television broadcasting.”
“Why’d you lend him your car?”
“He’s trying to collect money he lent his cousin’s husband.”
“His what?”
“His cousin had an operation and Sonny lent her husband thousands of dollars to pay for it.”
“His cousin’s husband, huh?”
“Yes. His first cousin. Well, they’re separated now. Which is why Sonny needed a car. So he could follow him and maybe he’d lead him to his cousin.”
“Where’d you get this story, miss?”
“It isn’t a story. Sonny needs to find his cousin, the one who had the kidney operation …”
“A kidney operation, I see.”
“So he can ask her to plead his case, tell her former husband to pay him back the money.”
“So he’s trailing this guy around.”
“Yes.”
“In your car.”
“Yes. He’s a cop, you may even know him.”
“Who’s a cop?”
“The guy who owes him the money.”
“Sonny Cole is trailing a cop?” Ollie said.
“That’s what he told me.”
Oh, Jesus, Ollie thought.
15
HE CALLED THE EIGHT-SEVEN THE MINUTE HE FOUND A PAY PHONE. THIS WAS NOW AROUND THREE-thirty. Parker answered the phone and told him Carella was in with the lieutenant just then.
“Tell him the guy who killed his old man is trailing him,” Ollie said. “In a green Honda.”
“No kidding?” Parker said.
“Sonny Cole. Tell him. The license plate number is WU 3200. Did Murchison tell you my nun joke?”
“No.”
“Forget it, I got a better one.”
“Let me hear it,” Parker said.
“These two nuns are riding back to the convent on their bicycles, and they take a wrong turn?”
“Yeah?”
“They’re bouncing along the road, and one of the nuns realizes they’re lost so she asks the other nun, ‘Have you ever come this way before?’ And the other nun says, ‘No. It must be the cobblestones.’ ”
“I don’t get it,” Parker said.
“Discuss it with Murchison,” Ollie said. “And don’t forget to tell Carella. Sonny Cole. A green Honda. WU 3200.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Write it down.”
“Yeah, don’t worry.”
“Put it on his desk.”
“Yeah, fine. Is it that she realizes they’re lost because of the cobblestones?” Parker asked.
“Yeah, you got it, pal,” Ollie said, and hung up.
“So what Roselli’s saying is she killed the man, is that it?” Byrnes asked.
“That’s what he’s saying,” Brown said.
“Who’s to contradict him? A dead woman?”
“Is what he’s counting on.”
“Have you got a theory?”
“Well … let’s say Roselli’s telling the truth. She did kill Charlie Custer. In which case, she quit the band and went back to the order so she could hide.”
“From who? The police down there already closed it out, didn’t they? Who’s she hiding from?”
“Roselli.”
“The only witness to the crime. Okay,
that makes sense.”
“On the other hand, if she didn’t kill him …”
“Then Roselli did.”
“Right. And she still went back to the order so she could hide from him.”
“Because she witnessed his crime.”
“So she disappears completely, becomes Sister Mary Vincent again.”
“None of these guys knew she’d once been a nun, is that right?”
“Came as a total surprise to them.”
“So running back to the convent was actually a good idea.”
“Perfect way to vanish.”
“So what happened? He found her?”
“That’s what he’s got to tell us, Pete.”
“Why should he?”
The office went silent.
“You think he’s the one who wrote that letter to her?”
“Could be.”
“But we haven’t got the letter.”
“That’s right.”
“So we don’t know what it said.”
“If he’s the one who ransacked her apartment, that’s what he was looking for.”
“And if he found it, he burned it a minute later.”
“So we’re back to zero.”
“He’s a user, Pete.”
“How do you know?”
“Farnes told us. Four years ago he was doing pot …”
“Everybody does pot when he’s a kid.”
“Not such a kid, Pete. He was twenty-four.”
“Even I did pot when I was twenty-four,” Byrnes said.
“He graduated. At Figgs’s funeral, he was sniffing coke.”
“Still according to Farnes?”
“Yes.”
“Reliable?”
“Who knows?”
“Okay, let’s say he’s a user. What are you looking for?”
“Guy’s on cocaine, he needs money. He told us he’s having a hard time finding work, been giving piano lessons to make ends meet. Okay, let’s say he tracked Katie down, tried to blackmail her. Told her he’d blow the whistle on the murder unless she paid him two grand. So she …”
“That’s assuming she did it. You can’t blackmail a person who’s …”
“No, it’s assuming he’ll say she did it.”
“He’s already got his story, Pete. The same one he told us. Katie killed Custer.”
“All he has to do is tell it again.”
“Or threaten to tell it.”
“That’s blackmail, Pete.”
“Give me two grand or I go to the police.”
“Where’d you get that figure?”
“That’s how much she asked her brother for.”