'He's right,' Durkin said.
'Except American Motors,' he said. 'A Gremlin, a Pacer, those you can tell. The rest all look the same.'
'And this wasn't a Gremlin or a Pacer.'
'No.'
'Was it a sedan? A hatchback?'
'I'll tell you the truth,' the man said. 'All I noticed is it was a car.
It says on the card, the make and model, the plate number.'
'You're talking about the registration card?'
'Yeah. They have to fill all that in.'
The card was on the desk, a sheet of clear acetate over it to preserve prints until the lab boys had their shot at it. Name: Martin Albert Ricone. Address: 211 Gilford Way. City: Fort Smith, Arkansas.
Make of Auto: Chevrolet. Year: 1980. Model: Sedan. Color: Black.
License No.: LJK-914. Signature: M. A.
RICONE.
'Looks like the same hand,' I told Durkin. 'But who can tell with printing?'
'The experts can say. Same as they can tell you if he had the same light touch with the machete. Guy likes forts, you notice? Fort Wayne, Indiana and Fort Smith, Arkansas.'
'A subtle pattern begins to emerge,' Garfein said.
'Ricone,' Durkin said. 'Must be Italian.'
'M. A. Ricone sounds like the guy who invented the radio.'
'That's Marconi,' Durkin said.
'Well, that's close. This guy's Macaroni. Stuck a feather in his hat and called it Macaroni.'
'Stuck a feather up his ass,' Durkin said.
'Maybe he stuck it up Cookie's ass and maybe it wasn't a feather.
Martin Albert Ricone, that's a fancy alias. What did he use last time?'
'Charles Owen Jones,' I said.
'Oh, he likes middle names. He's a cute fucker, isn't he?'
'Very cute,' Durkin said.
'The cute ones, the really cute ones, usually everything means something. Like Jones is slang, it means a habit. You know, like a heroin jones. Like a junkie says he's got a hundred-dollar jones, that's what his habit costs him per day.'
'I'm really glad you explained that for me,' Durkin said.
'Just trying to be helpful.'
' 'Cause I only got fourteen years in, I never had any contact yet with smack addicts.'
'So be a smart fuck,' Garfein said.
'The license plate go anywhere?'
'It's gonna go the same place as the name and address. I got a call in to Arkansas Motor Vehicles but it's a waste of time. A place like this, even the legitimate guests make up the plate number. They don't park in front of the window when they sign in so our guy here can't check. Not that he would anyway, would you?'
'There's no law says I have to check,' the man said.
'They use false names, too. Funny our boy used Jones at the Galaxy and Ricone here. They must get a lot of Joneses here, along with the usual run of Smiths and Browns. You get a lot of Smiths?'
'There's no law says I'm supposed to check ID,' the man said.
'Or wedding rings, huh?'
'Or wedding rings or marriage licenses or anything. Consenting adults, the hell, it's none of my business.'
'Maybe Ricone means something in Italian,' Garfein suggested.
'Now you're thinking,' Durkin said. He asked the manager if he had an Italian dictionary. The man stared at him, baffled. 'And they call this place a motel,' he said, shaking his head. 'There's probably no Gideon Bibles, either.'
'Most of the rooms have them.'
'Jesus, really? Right next to the television with the X-rated movies, right? Conveniently located near the waterbed.'
'Only two of the units have waterbeds,' the poor bastard said.
'There's an extra charge for a waterbed.'
