Fiddlers

‘Whatever you thought.’

‘Yeah.’

They were silent for another moment.

‘She doesn’t want me to call her.’

‘So don’t.’

‘For a while, anyway.’

‘Is that what she said?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, that’s a good sign.’

He was thinking, Man, you don’t tail a woman you love.

‘I want this to work,’ Kling said.

‘Then make sure it does,’ Carella said.

‘I love her, Steve.’

‘Tell her.’

Again and again and again, he thought.

‘When do you think I should call her again?’

‘Was me?’

‘Yeah?’

‘I’d call her every minute of every hour of every day until she knew how much I loved her.’

‘I’m afraid she’ll…”

He shook his head.

‘I’m afraid I’ll lose her,’ he said.

‘Tell her.’

Kling nodded.

He was already trying to think what he might say the next time he phoned.

* * * *

Ollie Weeks was still thinking about last Friday night. The dinner with Patricia and her family. Or, more accurately, what had happened in the parking lot after dinner. That was almost a week ago, and all he could do was still think about Patricia Gomez.

To tell the truth, he was beginning to feel a bit conflicted, so to speak. This was probably because Patricia had kissed him good night on the lips. This after her brother had clapped him on the shoulder and said, ‘You got cool chops, dude.’ Meaning the way he played piano. This after her father had told him, ‘I like a man with a hearty appetite.’ Meaning the way he ate.

Ollie had told Patricia she didn’t have to come downstairs with him, it was late, and she’d said, ‘Hey, I’m a cop.’ Took the elevator down with him, the hallways and the elevator doors all covered with graffiti, salsa music coming from inside all the apartments. Walked him to his car, and kissed him before he even unlocked the door. On the lips. With her mouth open. And her tongue working.

Which was why he felt so conflicted, so to speak, this Monday evening, when he was about to call Patricia to propose a quiet little dinner alone in his apartment, which he himself would prepare.

Was he merely out to lay Patricia Gomez?

Or was this something more serious, God forbid?

He wished he had someone he could discuss this with.

He wished he knew Steve Carella better.

Only other person he could think of was Andy Parker.

* * * *

The two men met for a drink at nine that night. Parker suspected something was on Ollie’s mind, but he couldn’t imagine what it was until Ollie began talking about this great Spanish dinner he’d had last week up Patricia Gomez’s house.

‘You still seeing her, huh?’ Parker said.

‘Well, yeah, every now and then,’ Ollie said.

‘Is that why you’re on this diet of yours?’

‘What diet?’ Ollie asked.

‘Or maybe not, a Spanish dinner.’

‘Patricia says it’s okay to go off it every now and then.’

‘So it was her idea, is that right?’

‘No, no, her idea. Come on.’

‘Then whose idea was it, if not hers? If she’s the one can say it’s okay to stay on it or go off it, then whose idea was it? The Pope’s?’

‘So we talked about me losing a few pounds, so what?’

‘Looks to me like you lost a lot more than a few pounds. I hardly recognized you when you walked in here.’

‘Really?’ Ollie said, pleased.

‘You gotta be careful, losing so much weight so fast.’

‘Ten pounds is all,’ Ollie said.

‘That’s a lot. She must have some grip on you, this girl.’

‘Naw, come on, whattya mean, grip. Come on. We just see each other every now and then.’

‘So long as it’s just that,’ Parker said, and nodded emphatically. ‘You drinking beer cause of the diet?’

‘Well, hard liquor has a lot of empty calories,’ Ollie explained.

‘You want another beer?’

‘I’m okay with this,’ Ollie said.

‘I’ll have another scotch, if it won’t offend you, that is.’

‘Why should it offend me?’ Ollie said.

‘Who knows, these days?’ Parker said, and signaled for a refill and then gulped it down in almost a single swallow. ‘You hear the one about the Caddys?’ he asked.

‘Which one is that?’

‘If a white man driving a white Caddy is white power,’ Parker said, ‘and two black men driving a black Caddy is black power…” He grinned in anticipation. ‘What’s three Puerto Ricans driving a maroon Caddy?’

‘Puerto Rican power?’ Ollie guessed.

‘Grand Theft, Auto,’ Parker said, and burst out laughing.

Ollie nodded, sipped at his beer.

‘What’sa matter?’ Parker asked.

‘Nothing. Why? What’sa matter?’

‘You din’t think that was funny?’

‘Not very.’

‘Grand Theft, Auto? You din’t think that was funny?’

‘I thought it was Grand Theft, Auto, is what I thought it was. It coulda been any three guys driving the car, that woulda been Grand Theft, Auto, if they stole the car.’

‘Yeah, but these were three spics, which is what made it Grand Theft, Auto, which is what makes the joke funny.’

‘Okay, so it’s funny,’ Ollie said. ‘Ha ha.’

‘You know what’s wrong with you all at once?’ Parker said, and jabbed his finger across the table at him.

‘I didn’t realize anything was wrong with me all at once,’ Ollie said.

‘Yes, all at once you are losing your you-ness.’

‘My what?’

‘Your essential Ollie-ness.’

‘And what is that, my essential Ollie-ness?’

‘Your capacity to laugh at niggers and spies and wops and kikes…”

‘I told you “ha ha,” didn’t I?’