Fiddlers Read online

  He came at them like a bull roaring out of the chutes, looking to gore anybody in the ring. They weren’t used to this sort of activity. Your uniforms, who were there on the spot when a crime was going down, got into physical combat more often than your detectives, who usually came in after a crime was committed. Neither Carella nor Meyer could remember the last time they’d worked out at the police gym. So here came a guy who weighed two hundred and ten pounds, and who was still in good shape from lifting weights when he was on the inside, a guy who’d been paying off Narcotics, and maybe Street Crime as well, and who felt entitled to a little protection here, instead of two starfish assholes waving a search warrant at him. He felt betrayed, and he felt endangered, and besides he felt he had nothing to lose if he could get out of here past these two range queens, so he smashed his fist into Meyer’s face, knocking him off balance and back into Carella, who was reaching for his holstered Glock, when he, too, lost balance.

  La Paglia kicked Meyer in the balls, dropping him moaning to his knees. He was about to do the same thing to Carella when the Glock popped into view. He kicked Meyer under the chin instead, hoping this would dissuade the other cop, but the gun was level in Carella’s hand now, pointing straight at La Paglia’s head, and his eyes spoke even before his mouth did, and his eyes said, I am going to shoot you dead.

  ‘Freeze!’ he yelled.

  La Paglia hesitated just another moment. Meyer was lying flat on the floor now. La Paglia brought back his foot to kick him in the head again, just for spite, and then changed his mind when he heard Carella shout, ‘Now!’

  He froze.

  * * * *

  He half expected the number she’d given him to be a fake one, but lo and behold, there was her voice on the phone.

  ‘Reggie?’ he said.

  ‘Who’s this, please?’

  ‘Charles.’

  ‘Charles?’

  ‘Remember last Thursday night? You and Trish?’

  ‘Oh, right, sure. Hi, Charles.’

  He still didn’t think she remembered him.

  ‘You gave me your phone number, remember?’

  ‘Sure. How you doin, Charles?’

  ‘Fine, thanks. And you?’

  ‘Fine. You’re the guy with the shaved head, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Sure, I remember. So what’d you have in mind, Charles?’

  ‘I bought a new car,’ he said.

  ‘No kidding?’

  ‘I take delivery tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Wow,’ she said, but she didn’t sound at all enthusiastic.

  ‘What I thought…”

  ‘Yes, Charles?’

  ‘If you were free tomorrow…”

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘We could go for a ride in the country, have lunch at some nice little place on the road, come back to the hotel for dinner, and then spend the night together. If that sounds interesting to you, Reggie.’

  ‘It does indeed,’ she said.

  ‘Well then, good,’ he said, relieved. ‘Where shall I pick you up?’

  ‘Are you staying at the hotel now?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘Well, why don’t I just meet you there?’

  ‘Fine. Eleven tomorrow morning?’

  ‘That’ll be a long day,’ she said.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And night,’ she said.

  ‘I realize that.’

  ‘We don’t have to discuss money, do we, Charles?’

  ‘Not unless you want to.’

  ‘It’s just… it’ll be all day, and then all night.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Does five thousand sound high?’

  ‘It sounds fine, Reggie.’

  ‘What kind of car did you buy?’ she asked.

  * * * *

  He wasn’t worried about the money running out. There was enough to last till he did what he still had to do. The home equity loan on the house was big enough to carry him through to the end of this. Just barely, the way he was spending, but that’s what this was all about, wasn’t it? Corrections? Adjustments? Make for himself now the life he should have enjoyed all along? Drive through the countryside with a nineteen-year-old redhead in a leased Jaguar convertible? That’s what this was all about, wasn’t it?

  The look on Alicia’s face when he said, ‘Remember me? Chuck?’

  Oh, Jesus, that was almost worth it all, he’d been almost ready to quit right then and there! That priceless look of recognition an instant before he shot her. Recognition, and then pain. The bullets smashing home. A pain deeper than his own, he supposed. He hoped so. And she’d known.

  They would all know, because he would make sure they knew. Hi, remember me? Long time no see, right? Bad penny, right? So long, it’s been swell’t’know ya!

  And bam!

  Good.

  * * * *

  Tomorrow was a school day, and so the surprise birthday party for the twins was an afternoon one, and they were both home by eight that Tuesday night. When Carella came in at nine thirty, April was in the living room with Teddy, still chattering away, her hands moving on the air for her mother to read. Lipstick. High heels. Miniskirt. His thirteen-year-old daughter now. He yelled, ‘Hi, everybody,’ went in to where they were both sitting under the imitation Tiffany lamp, signed, Hi, Sweetie, kissed Teddy, and then kissed his daughter and asked, ‘How was the party?’

  ‘Cool,’ April said, ‘I was just telling Mom.’

  ‘Where’s Mark?’ he asked.

  ‘In his room,’ April said.

  ‘Everything okay?’

  Teddy discreetly rolled her eyes.

  Their eyes met. Communicated.

  ‘I’ll go say hello,’ he said. ‘When’s dinner?’

  ‘Mark and me ate at the party,’ April said.

  Mark and I, Teddy signed.

  ‘You ate at the party, too?’ April said aloud, and then signed it, just in case her mother had missed her dynamite wit. Teddy mouthed, Ha ha. Carella was already on the way down the hall to his son’s room.

  Mark was lying on his bed, hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. No music blaring. No TV on. He made room for his father, sat up when his father took the offered space.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Carella asked.

  Mark shrugged.

  ‘Tough being a teenager?’ Carella said, and put his arm around his son’s shoulders.

  ‘Dad…” Mark said, and hesitated.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘You know who I always thought was my best friend?’

  ‘Who, son?’

  ‘April. Dad, she’s my twin! I mean, she was my womb mate, excuse me, that’s a twelve-year-old joke, I’m thirteen now, I have to stop behaving like a friggen Munchkin!’

  And suddenly he was in tears.

  He buried his face in Carella’s shoulder.

  ‘What happened, Mark?’

  ‘She called me and my friends Munchkins!’

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘Lorraine Pierce. The girl who gave the party for us. It’s because lots of us are still shorter than the girls, and our voices are beginning to change, but that’s no reason to tease us. We’re thirteen, too, Dad. We have a right to grow up, too!’

  ‘What’s this got to do with your sister?’

  ‘April let her! She just laughed along with all the other girls and the older boys. My own sister! My twin!’

  ‘I’ll talk to her.’

  ‘No, let it go, please. They were just showing off.’

  Mark dried his eyes. Carella kept looking at him.

  ‘What else, son?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Tell me what else.’

  ‘Dad… I think she’s a bad influence.’

  ‘Who, son?’

  ‘Lorraine Pierce. April’s best friend.’

  ‘Because she called you and your friends Munchkins?’

  ‘No, because…” He shook his head. ‘Never mind. I don’t want to be a s
nitch.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with snitches, son. Why is she a bad influence, this Lorraine?’

  ‘To begin with, I know she’s a shoplifter.’

  Carella was suddenly all ears.

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘April told me.’

  ‘How does she know?’

  ‘She was in the drugstore with Lorraine when she swiped a bottle of nail polish.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Two, three weeks ago.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ Carella said, and got up to close the door.

  * * * *

  April had already gone down the hall to her room by the time Carella came back into the living room. Teddy was still sitting under the imitation Tiffany, reading, her hands in her lap, her black hair glossy with light. She closed the book at once.

  Did he say anything? she signed.

  ‘Plenty,’ Carella said.

  The way Mark reported it to him…

  Around the beginning of the month sometime, April had gone to a Saturday afternoon movie with her good friend Lorraine Pierce. They’d stopped in a drugstore on the way home, and April was leafing through a copy of People magazine, when she saw Lorraine slip a bottle of nail polish into her handbag. At first, she couldn’t believe what she was seeing: Lorraine taking a quick glance at the cashier, and then swiftly dropping the bottle into her bag…

  ‘Lorraine!’ she whispered.

  Lorraine turned to her. Blue eyes all wide and innocent.

  ‘Put that back,’ April whispered.

  ‘Put what back?’

  April looked toward where the cashier was checking out a fat woman in a flowered dress. Moving so that she shielded Lorraine from the cashier’s view, she whispered, ‘Put it back. Now.’

  ‘Don’t be ridic,’ Lorraine said, and walked out of the store.

  On the sidewalk outside, April caught her arm, pulled her to a stop.

  ‘My father’s a cop!’ she said.

  ‘It’s just a stupid bottle of nail polish,’ Lorraine said.

  ‘But you stole it!’

  ‘I buy lots of things in that store.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with it?’

  ‘I’ll pay them when I get my allowance.’

  ‘Lorraine, you stole that nail polish.’

  ‘Don’t be such a pisspants,’ Lorraine said sharply.

  They were walking swiftly up the avenue, away from the drugstore. April felt as if they’d just robbed a bank. People rushing by in either direction, the June heat as thick as yellow fog. The stolen nail polish, the swag, sitting at the bottom of Lorraine’s handbag.

  ‘Give it to me, I’ll take it back,’ April said.

  ‘No!’

  ‘Lorraine…’

  ‘You’re an accomplice,’ Lorraine said.

  * * * *

  Teddy watched Carella’s mouth, his flying fingers. At last, she nodded.

  They could have both got in serious trouble, she signed.

  ‘That’s what Mark told her.’

  What’d she say to that?

  ‘You don’t want to hear it.’

  I do.

  ‘She repeated Lorraine. She said, “Don’t be such a pisspants.”

  April said that?

  ‘I’m sorry, hon.’

  April?

  Teddy sat motionless for a moment.

  When she raised her hands again, she signed, I’ll have a talk with her.

  * * * *

  When the phone on Lieutenant Byrnes’s desk rang, he thought it was his wife, Harriet, wanting to know why he wasn’t home yet. Instead, it was the Chief of Detectives.

  ‘I was wondering how you thought the department should proceed with this case,’ he told Byrnes. ‘From now on, that is. The media’s having a field day with the blind guy, you know. War hero, all that shit.’

  ‘We’re okay with it,’ Byrnes said. ‘In fact, we just wrapped a drug bust. That’s why you caught me here.’

  ‘What’s a drug bust got to do with two homicides?’

  ‘Long story,’ Byrnes said.

  ‘It better be a good one,’ the Chief said. ‘Cause I have to tell you, I’m thinking your plate might be too full just now…”

  ‘We can handle it without a problem,’ Byrnes said.

  ‘The Commish thinks we may need a display of special attention here, his words. A dead war hero. Blind, no less.’

  ‘The Eight-Seven is prepared to give the case all the special attention it needs,’ Byrnes said.

  The two men were negotiating.

  If the case got pulled away from the Eight-Seven, the tabloids would make the squad appear incapable of investigating something this big. On the other hand, if the Chief left the case solely to a dinky little precinct in one of the city’s backwaters, the tabs would be watching like hawks, waiting for the first mishap.

  ‘The Commish wants a Special Forces man on it at all times,’ the Chief said at last.

  ‘In what capacity?’

  ‘Advisory and supervisory.’

  ‘Riding with my people?’

  ‘At all times.’

  ‘No. They’ll file with him, but they don’t need a third leg.’

  ‘He rides with them.’

  ‘I told you no.’

  ‘We’ll call it a joint task force, whatever. Your people and the man from Special Forces.’

  ‘And just who might that be?’ Byrnes asked, sounding suddenly very Irish and very stubborn.

  ‘Georgie Fitzsimmons,’ the Chief said.

  ‘That prick?’ Byrnes said. ‘No way will I let him ride with any of my people.’

  ‘Pete…”

  ‘Don’t “Pete” me, Lou. We’re not cutting that kind of deal here. Call it what you want to call it, a joint task force, a special task force, but all we do is report back to Fitz at the end of the day, and that’s that.’

  ‘How long have I known you, Pete?’

  ‘Too long, Lou.’

  ‘Do me this favor.’

  ‘No. We’re on it. It’s under control. We’ll file with Fitz at the end of the day. That’s the deal.’

  ‘They’d better come up with something, Pete.’

  ‘We’re working it, Lou. We just made a goddamn drug bust!’

  ‘Soon,’ the Chief warned.

  ‘We’re working it,’ Byrnes said again.

  4.

  IN THIS CITY there were some 4,000 nail salons scattered hither and yon, most of them in small, modest, fluorescent-lighted spaces in walk-up buildings, some more luxurious, with chandeliers, sculpted vases, silk-embroidered divans, and even stained-glass windows. A tenth of the city’s estimated Korean population was employed in these salons, some 50,000 in all, mostly all of them women. An industrious woman could earn as much as a hundred dollars a day, plus tips, giving manicures, pedicures, or - in the fancier establishments - green-tea treatments, Asian foot massages, or painted nail extensions. Moreover, instead of having to stand on her feet all day in a Dunkin’ Donuts or a factory, a girl could sit while she worked in one of these nail parlors. It sure beat wading around in a rice paddy.

  The woman who owned and operated Lotus Blossom Nails had a rags-to-riches story, and she was not at all reluctant to tell it. Looking like the madam of a whore house in some forties movie set in Shanghai, as loquacious as a Jewish yenta, Jenny Cho - for such was her Americanized name - told the detectives that she’d opened her first salon fifteen years ago, with a $30,000 start-up investment, after a ten-week course that gave her a license in manicuring. Before then, she’d clipped, filed, and polished her own nails at home…

  ‘Korean girl have very strong nail,’ she told them. ‘No need nail salon. We do for ourselves.’

  … and now she ran a string of six manicure salons scattered all over the city, all with the word ‘Blossom’ in their names. Yon had been her Korean name, before she changed it to Jenny. It meant ‘lotus blossom.’

  The detectives listened politely.

&nbs
p; At ten that Wednesday morning, there were women all over the place, sitting in these high, black-leather upholstered chairs, feet soaking in tubs of water, nails getting painted, or dried, reading magazines. One of the ladies with her feet in a tub was sitting with her skirt pulled up almost to Seoul. Parker was tempted not to look.

  ‘Who you looking for?’ Jenny asked.

  ‘Know a woman named Alicia Hendricks?’ Parker said.

  ‘Beauty Plus?’

  ‘Lustre Nails?’

  ‘Oh sure,’ Jenny said. ‘She come here alla time. Nice girl. She okay?’

  ‘She’s dead,’ Parker said.

  Jenny’s eyes immediately shifted. Just the very slightest bit, almost as if the light had changed, it was that subtle. But both these men were detectives, and that’s why they were here in person, rather than at the other end of a phone. They both saw the faint flicker of recognition; both realized they might be getting close to something here.

  Jenny was no fool.

  She caught them catching on.

  Saw in their eyes the knowledge of what they’d seen in hers.

  ‘I so sorry to hear that,’ she said, and ducked her head.

  They allowed her the moment of grief, authentic or otherwise.

  ‘When did you see her last?’ Parker asked.

  ‘Two,’t’ree week ago. She come by with new line. What happen to her?’

  Sounding genuinely concerned.

  ‘Someone shot her.’

  ‘Why?’

  You tell us, Parker thought.

  ‘How long did you know her?’ Genero asked.

  ‘Oh, maybe two year. T’ree?’

  ‘Did you know she was doing drugs?’

  Straight out. Made Alicia sound like a cotton shooter or some other kind of desperate addict, but what the hell. It certainly caught Jenny Cho’s attention.

  The word flashed in her brown eyes like heat lightning. She knew Alicia was doing drugs. Dabbling. Experimenting. Whatever. But she knew. And she wanted no part of it now. The alarm sizzled in her eyes, they could feel her backing away from the very word. Drugs. Shrinking away from the knowledge.

  But she was smart.

  ‘Yes, but not so much,’ she said. ‘Some li’l pot, you know?’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ Parker said.

  ‘Any idea where she was getting it?’ Genero asked.

  ‘You go An’rews Boul’vard, you buy pot anyplace. All over the street, anyplace.’