'Come on, torero, less see that acero you got there.'
'Or maybe juss a puntilla, eh?'
'Feels like a nice big package here, Anita.'
'Wha' you say, matador?
'We have our'sess a real fiesta brava, eh?'
'Some other time, girls,' he said, and walked away.
'You'll beeee sorrr-eeeeel' they chanted in unison behind him.
Ollie wondered if he might be coming down with something.
For the past half-hour, he'd been looking for a girl named Wanda Lipinsky. From all accounts, Wanda was not Jewish. She had chosen the surname only because of its echoing proximity to the name Lewinsky, which slant rhyme seemed to promise all sorts of oral delights. Toward that end (and no pun intended) Wanda could be recognized, he'd been informed, by the thong panties she affected in imitation — if ever anyone got past her mouth to explore the hidden treasures under her skirt. But these
were not the good old days, and these promised delectations, ah yes, were not what interested Ollie about Ms. Lipinsky, whose real name, he was further told, was Margaret O'Neill.
Little Margie, it seemed, was a freelance like the Carmela Sammarone who had possibly aced the pimp who'd given her up to the Boys of Grover Park. Little Margie, it further seemed, had gone on the town with Little Mela this past Wednesday night, cruising the hotels midtown, where Mela had scored, but not, alas, the thong- wearing Lewinsky sound-alike. Or so the grapevine maintained, and Ollie had no reason to doubt a story now corroborated by three skimpily dressed hookers freezing their asses off in what had turned into a somewhat chilling rain.
In the old days, there might have been something exciting about these girls — white, black, Latina, Asian, there was pure democracy in Ho Alley — shivering in their underwear and openly peddling their wares. But now, on this early morning in early June . . .
Surely he was coming down with something. . . . they seemed only poor damn creatures who needed to be helped and comforted. Or perhaps even pitied.
Frowning, puzzled, he hunched his shoulders and moved on through the falling drizzle.
HE DID NOT find Wanda Lipinsky until two that morning. She was backing her way out of a blue Chevy Impala where she'd undoubtedly just blown the little spic behind the wheel, her skirt halfway up her ass, exposing her buttocks and the red silk ribbon of a pair of thong panties buried in her crack.
He waited till she was clear of the car, waited until she
turned, tugging at the short skirt, and began walking off.
'Wanda?' he asked.
She stopped dead on the sidewalk.
Turned toward him with a hooker's welcoming smile on her face. She was not an unattractive girl — woman, he guessed — in her mid- or late twenties, with long brownish hair and what he perceived in the near- dark to be blue eyes. Short tight skirt, the line of the thong panties clearly visible. Low-cut, swoop-necked blouse, uplift bra thrusting her breasts in his face. Eyebrows raising slightly. Do I know you?
'Police,' he said, and showed the tin. 'Few questions I'd like to ask you.'
'Sure,' she said wearily.
Another night in the cooler, she was thinking.
HE WANTED TO know about last Wednesday night.
'Were you with Carmela Sammarone last Wednesday night?' he asked.
'Carmela . . . ?'
'Sammarone. You know who she is, Wanda. Were you with her?'
They were sitting in an all-night joint on Carson and Mclntyre. Wanda was nursing a beer; she still had a long night ahead of her. She hoped. Ollie was sipping a club soda with a slice of lime in it; he was officially off duty, but he wanted to keep his wits about him. He had a feeling that Little Margie O'Neill here could turn out to be a slippery little customer.
'Carmela Sammarone,' he said again.
Wanda said nothing.
'You do know her, don't you?'
'Never heard of her.'
'Were you with her last Wednesday night?'
'Wednesday night, Wednesday night,' Wanda said, rolling her eyes, thinking.
'Yes or no, Wanda?'
'I don't recall.'
'Wanda,' he said, 'don't fuck with me.'
'Language,' she scolded.
'I need to find her. I understand you went downtown cruising
'I told you I don't remember.'
'Think. The hotels downtown. Think, Wanda.'
'Oh. You mean . . . ?'
Yes? What do I mean?'
'Melissa? You talking about Melissa?'
'Is that what she calls herself? Melissa?'
'Melissa Summers, yes.'
'Do you know where she is?'
'No, I don't. I'm not her fucking mother.'
'Language,' Ollie scolded.
'What'd she do?'
'That's what I'd like to ask her.'
'I don't rat out friends.'
'Then you do know where she is.'
'I told you I don't.'
'Where'd the two of you go last Wednesday night?'
'Who said we went anywhere?'
'Three girls so far. You want their names?'
'What'd Lissie do?'
'Tell me where she scored last Wednesday.'
'Why? She rip off the guy, or something?'
'There was a guy, right?'
You got me,' she said, shrugging. 'Was there?'
'How'd you like getting mugged and printed again tonight?'
Wanda said nothing.
'Wanna spend the night in a holding cell, Margie?'
Still nothing.
'You want some dyke forcing you to lick her pussy?'
'Been there, done that,' she said.
'Okay then, we're through talking,' he said, and stood up. 'Let's go.'
'Go where? Nobody solicited you.'
'Gee, didn't somebody? I could swear you said you'd blow me for a C-note.'
She looked up at him.
'Sit down,' she said.
He kept standing.
'Sit down,' she said again.
THE BARTENDER AT the Olympia Hotel was washing glasses when Ollie got there at a little before three that morning.
'Sorry, sir,' he said. 'Last call was half an hour ago.'
