'Good thing our Mr. Ricone's a cheap prick,' Garfein said.
'Cookie'da wound up underwater.'
'Tell me about this guy,' Durkin said. 'Describe him again.'
'I told you—'
'You're gonna get to tell this again and again. How tall was he?'
'Tall.'
'My height? Shorter? Taller?'
'I—'
'What was he wearing? He have a hat on? He wearing a tie?'
'It's hard to remember.'
'He walks in the door, asks you for a room. Now he's filling out the card. Pays you in cash. What do you get for a room like that, incidentally?'
'Twenty-eight dollars.'
'That's not such a bad deal. I suppose the porn movies are extra.'
'It's coin-operated.'
'Handy. Twenty-eight's fair, and it's a good deal for you if you can flip the room a few times a night.
How'd he pay you?'
'I told you. Cash.'
'I mean what kind of bills? What'd he give you, a pair of fifteens?'
'A pair of—'
'He give you a twenty and a ten?'
'I think it was two twenties.'
'And you gave him twelve bucks back? Wait, there must have been tax, right?'
'It's twenty-nine forty with the tax.'
'And he gave you forty bucks and you gave him the change.'
Something registered. 'He gave me two twenties and forty cents in change,' the man said. 'And I gave him a ten and a one.'
'See? You remember the transaction.'
'Yeah, I do. Sort of.'
'Now tell me what he looked like. He white?'
'Yeah, sure. White.'
'Heavy? Thin?'
'Thin but not too thin. On the thin side.'
'Beard?'
'No.'
'Moustache?'
'Maybe. I don't know.'
'There was something about him, though, something that stuck in your memory.'
'What?'
'That's what we're trying to get, John. That what they call you?
John?'
'Mostly it's Jack.'
'Okay, Jack. You're doin' fine now. What about his hair?'
'I didn't pay attention to his hair.'
'Sure you did. He bent over to sign in and you saw the top of his head, remember?'
'I don't—'
'Full head of hair?'
'I don't—'
'They'll sit him down with one of our artists,' Durkin said, 'and he'll come up with something. And when this fucking psycho ripper steps on his cock one of these days, when we catch him in the act or on his way out the door, he'll look as much like the police artist's sketch as I look like Sara fucking Blaustein.
She looked like a woman, didn't she?'
