Koko

“Maybe I should go to Bangkok.”

“Just say the word.”

“If they knew that this other journalist, this Ortiz, was killed in Singapore, why would they leave there and go to Bangkok?”

The waiter set before them bowls of a creamy porridge-like substance very similar to that Michael Poole had eaten for breakfast in Singapore. “Unless they found out that Tim Underhill had left town.”

“And Harry Beevers went to Taipei?” Maggie smiled at this thought, which evidently struck her as ridiculous.

Pumo nodded. “So they must have learned that Underhill was in one of those two places, and split up to try to find him. But why didn’t they call me first? If they learned that Underhill was out of Singapore after they read about Ortiz, they must know that Underhill is innocent.”

“Well, you can fly from Singapore to Bangkok in about an hour,” Maggie said. “Eat your soup and stop worrying.”

Pumo tried his soup. Like everything really funny-looking that Maggie urged on him, it did not taste at all the way it looked. The soup was not at all creamy, but tasted of wheat, pork essence, and something that tasted like cilantro but couldn’t be. He wondered if he could put a variation of this soup on the new menu. He could give it some name like Strength to Carry Two Oxen Soup, and serve it in little cups with lemon grass. The Mayor would love it.

“Last fall, around Halloween, I saw the wonderful Harry Beevers,” Maggie said. “I did this stupid thing, just to get him worked up. He was following me around a liquor store, and he was so arrogant he thought I didn’t see him. I was with Perry and Jules, you know, my downtown friends.”

“Roberto Ortiz,” Pumo said, having finally remembered the detail that had nagged him since seven o’clock. “Oh, my God.”

“They’re nice, they’re just perpetually out of work, which is why you can’t stand them. Anyhow, I saw Harry gloating around after me, and when I knew he was looking I stole a bottle of champagne. I was feeling nasty.”

“Roberto Ortiz,” Pumo repeated. “I’m sure that was the name.”

“I’m almost afraid to ask what you’re talking about,” Maggie said.

“When I looked up the newspapers in the Microfilm Room, the librarian told me that all those files had already been assembled for someone else who was researching a book about Ia Thuc. I think the librarian said the man’s name was Roberto Ortiz.” Tina looked virtually bug-eyed at Maggie. “Get it? Roberto Ortiz had already been dead for something like a week. I have to call Judy Poole and see if she knows where Michael is.”

“It still doesn’t exactly make sense, Tina.”

“I think Koko killed the last journalist, and then I think he got on a plane and came to New York.”

“Maybe it was Roberto Gomez at the library, or Umberto Ortiz, or some other name like that. Or maybe it was a reporter like Ernie Anastos. J.J. Gonzales. David Diaz. Fred Noriega.” She tried to think of other Hispanic reporters on New York City television, but couldn’t.

“Looking up articles on Ia Thuc?”

Pumo nervously finished his soup.

As soon as he had hung up his coat in the loft he switched on the lights and went up to his desk. Still wearing her down coat, Maggie trailed into the room after him.

This time Pumo asked Information in Westchester for Judith Poole’s listing in Westerholm, and was given a number that did sound to him gloomily like the alternate number on Michael’s recorded message. Pumo dialed it and Judy answered after a few rings. “This is Mrs. Poole.”

“Judy? This is Tina Pumo.”

Pause. “Hello, Tina.” Another deliberate pause. “Please excuse my asking, but would you mind my asking why you’re calling? It’s getting very late, and you could leave a message on Michael’s machine if it’s for him.”

“I already left a message on Michael’s machine. I’m sorry it’s late, but I have some important information for Mike.”

“Oh.”

“When I called him at the hotel in Singapore, I was told that they had checked out.”

“Yes.”

What the hell is going on here? Pumo wondered. “I was hoping that you could give a number for where they are now. Michael’s been in Bangkok for two or three days now.”

“I know that, Tina. I’d give you his number in Bangkok, but I don’t have it. We didn’t have that sort of conversation.”

Tina groaned silently. “Well, what’s the name of his hotel?”

“I don’t think he told me. I’m sure I didn’t ask.”

“Well, could I give you a message for him? He has to know some things I’ve discovered in the past few days.” When Judy said nothing, Pumo went on. “I’d like you to tell him that Koko’s victims, McKenna and Ortiz and the others, were the journalists at Ia Thuc, and that I think Koko might be in New York, calling himself Roberto Ortiz.”

“I don’t have the faintest idea of what you’re talking about. What’s this about victims? What do you mean, victims? What’s this Koko stuif?”

Michael looked over at Maggie, who rolled her eyes and stuck her tongue out.

“What the hell is going on here, Tina?”

“Judy, I’d like you to ask Michael to call me as soon as possible after he talks to you. Or give me a call and tell me where he is.”

“You can’t say something like that to me and then just hang up! I want to know a thing or two, Tina. Suppose you tell me who’s been calling me up at all hours and not saying anything.”

“Judy, I don’t have any idea who that could be.”

“I suppose Michael didn’t ask you to do that now and then, just to check up on me?”

“Oh, Judy,” Pumo said. “If someone is bothering you, call the police.”

“I have a better idea,” she said, and hung up.

Pumo and Maggie went to bed early that night, and Maggie wound her arms around him, hooked her feet around the back of his legs, and held him tight. “What can I do?” he asked. “Call all the hotels in town and ask if Roberto Ortiz is registered?”

“Stop worrying,” Maggie said. “Nobody’s going to hurt you as long as I’m here.”

“I almost believe you,” Pumo laughed. “Maybe I was wrong about the name. Maybe it was Umberto Diaz, or whoever you said.”

“Umberto wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“Tomorrow I’ll talk to that guy at the library,” Pumo said.

Maggie fell asleep after they made love, and for a long time Pumo tested his memory without shaking his conviction that the name spoken by the librarian had been Roberto Ortiz. He finally fell asleep.

And woke all at once, as if prodded by a sharp stick, hours later. He knew something horrible, knew it absolutely and with the total unblinking certainty with which the worst things are embraced in the dark of the night. Pumo understood that when daylight came he would begin to doubt this certainty. The worst thing would no longer seem rational or persuasive once the sun came up. He would be lulled, he would accept Maggie’s comforting explanations. But Tina promised himself that he would remember how he felt at this moment. He knew that it was not Dracula or any other criminal who had broken into his apartment. Koko had come into his apartment. Koko had stolen his address book. He needed their addresses in order to hunt them down, and now he had them.

Then another section of the puzzle slotted into place for Pumo. Koko had called Michael Poole’s number, been given Judy’s number by the answering machine, and promptly dialed it. And kept on dialing it.

Pumo did not get to sleep for a long time. Eventually a thought even he knew was paranoid joined the others, that Koko had murdered the investment banker, Clement W. Irwin, in the airport, and this thought, for all its obvious irrationality, kept him awake even longer.

3

After breakfast, Maggie went off to Jungle Red to have her hair trimmed and Pumo went downstairs to talk to