Fiddlers

‘So she explained that she was just kidding, right?’

‘Well, no,’ Susan said, chuckling. ‘He was eighteen, she was twenty-three, this was consensual. Nothing wrong with that.’

‘Nothing at all,’ Kling said. ‘What was this boy’s name, would you remember?’

‘She never said. Told me the story one night while we were having dinner together.’

‘You’re saying she went to bed with him,’ Brown said.

‘Isn’t that delicious?’ Susan said, and actually clapped her hands. She leaned closer, conspiratorially. Her voice lowered to a whisper. ‘But that wasn’t the end of it.’

Neither of them dared ask what the end of it was.

‘She gave him a C, anyway!’ Susan said gleefully.

The detectives said nothing for a moment.

‘Was he accepted at that college in Vermont?’ Brown asked at last.

‘No! He got drafted into the Army!’

Brown nodded.

‘Isn’t that the supreme irony!’ Susan said.

* * * *

‘You know something,’ Brown said in the car on the way back to the city. ‘There are people who are ugly when they’re young, and they’re still ugly when they’re old. Nothing changes there. Ugly is ugly.’

They were caught in inexplicable post-rush-hour traffic. Brown was driving. The car windows were open. An incessant buzz seemed to hang over everything.

‘I’ll tell you something else,’ he said. ‘If you’re getting a picture here of a mean old lady, then ten to one she was a mean young lady, too. And probably a mean little brat. Nothing changes. Mean is mean. Susan Hardigan enjoyed telling that damn story. They must have been two prize bitches back then, her and her good friend Christine. Both of them ugly, both of them mean.’

‘Yep,’ Kling said.

They drove in silence for some time, pondering the vast mysteries of life.

‘Got time for a drink?’ Kling asked. ‘Caroline’s waiting,’ Brown said.

* * * *

When Carella got home that night, he explained that the reason he was late was there’d been another murder, and the Loot had them running all around town again.

‘In the Eight-Eight this time, an old priest, same Glock,’ he told Teddy. ‘Ollie Weeks caught it, lucky us.’

How many does this make? Teddy signed.

‘Four.’

Is it some nutcase shooting people at random?

The word ‘nutcase’ was difficult to sign.

At first, Carella read it as ‘Nazi.’

‘Oh, nutcase,’ he said, after she’d repeated it three times. ‘Maybe.’

But he didn’t think so.

* * * *

First thing Kling thought was, She’s a hooker.

Sliding onto the stool next to his, She’s a hooker. Or was that racial profiling? Or had he been drinking too much? Or did he just miss Sharyn too much? When you’re in love, the whole world’s black. Sharyn’s words. The girl smiled at him. Very black girl, very white smile. Short skirt, crossed her legs. Smooth black legs, bare, shiny. He almost put his hand on her knee. Reflexive action. Been with Sharyn too long a time now. Once you taste black, there’s no going back. Sharyn’s words, too.

‘Dirty martini,’ the girl told the bartender.

‘What’s that?’ Kling asked. ‘A dirty martini.’

The girl turned to him. ‘You don’t know whut a dirty martini is?’ she said, and then, to the bartender, ‘He aon’t know whut a dirty martini is, Louis.’

‘Tell him what it is, Sade,’ the bartender said.

Sadie Harris,’ the girl said, and held out her hand. Kling took it.

‘Bert Kling,’ he said.

‘Nice’t’meet you, Bert. Way I make a dirty martini,’ she said, and again to the bartender, ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, Louis.’

‘You’re the one taught me how to make ‘em,’ Louis said, grinning.

‘You take two shots of gin,’ Sadie said, ‘and you add three teaspoons of olive juice. No vermouth. Just the olive juice. Then you either shake it or stir it

‘I prefer stirring it,’ Louis said, actually working on the drink now.

‘… over ice,’ Sadie said, ‘and you pour it in an up glass, and add an olive. I like a jalapefio olive in mine, as Louis well knows. Thank you, Louis,’ she said, and accepted the stemmed glass. ‘You want a little taste of this, Bert?’ she asked. ‘Li’l sip of this?’

‘Why not?’ he said.

She held the glass for him, brought it to his mouth. He sipped.

‘Nice,’ he said.

‘Yummy,’ she said, and brought the glass to her own mouth. Thick lips, berry ripe with lipstick. Black hair in corn rows. Earrings dangling. Legs crossed, skirt high on her thighs, one foot jiggling a strappy sandal, half on, half off. Low-cut silk blouse unbuttoned three buttons down. No bra. Silk puckered. Nipple on one breast almost showing. Not quite.

‘So what do you do, Bert?’ she asked.

‘I’m a cop,’ he said.

‘Oh dear,’ Sadie said.

‘How about you?’

‘Be funny if I was a hooker, wouldn’t it?’ she said, and winked at Louis.

‘What are you?’ Kling asked.

‘A librarian.’

‘I’ll bet.’

‘I’ll bet you’re a cop, too.’

‘You’d win.’

“What are you, Narcotics?’

‘Nope.’

‘Street Crime?’

‘Nope.’

‘Vice?’

‘Nope.’

‘Cause if you was Vice, and I was a hooker, I’d have to be real careful here, you know whut I’m saying?’

‘I guess you’d have to be careful, yes.’

‘Good thing I’m just a librarian.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘And you’re just a plain old cop.’

‘Just a plain old Detective/Third Grade.’

‘Whut precinct?’

‘The Eight-Seven.’

‘You think he’s really a cop, Louis?’

‘Man says he’s a cop, I got no reason to doubt his word.’

‘Let me see your badge,’ Sadie said.

Kling reached for his wallet, opened it to where his shield was pinned to the leather.

‘Gee,’ Sadie said.

‘Told you,’ Kling said, and closed the wallet and put it back in his pocket.