'Yes, Oll! You wrote a book!'
'Well
'How many people can write a book? I can't write a book!'
'Well
He almost said, 'I caught the faggot spic hump who stole it,' but he didn't say that out loud because Patricia probably'd had lots of people calling her a spic in her lifetime, and he didn't think she'd appreciate the word com-
ing from his mouth, although it probably was short for Hispanic, what writers called an elision, he supposed.
'I caught the guy who stole it,' he said.
'Get out!'
'I did. He recited the whole thing for me. I taped it. I can start all over again, Patricia. I can listen to it, and find out what's good or bad, and make it really work this time.'
'You see what I mean? That's so creative, Oll, and inquisitive, and . . .'
'Come on, you'll make me blush.'
'So blush,' she said. 'I'll bet blushing burns calories. And lively and . . . and . . . yes, you are a good dancer!'
'Who said I wasn't?'
'Well. . . nobody.'
'So are you, Patricia.'
'Thank you, Oll. I really do like the way we dance together, don't you?'
'Yes, I do.'
'Maybe we can go dancing again tonight. Burn some more calories.'
'Better than exercise, that's for sure,' he said.
'But it is exercise. Dancing. You know what else you should do, Oll?'
'No what?'
'You should think about going down the police gym, run the track, lift some weights. Be good for you.'
'I'd have a heart attack.'
'Nah, come on, a heart attack! What's the matter with you? A little exercise? Come on!'
'Exercise is boring.'
'Sure. So?'
Ollie shrugged.
'By the way,' she said, 'tonight's my treat. I owe you one.'
'Okay, I accept,' he said.
'Be a cheap date,' she said, and winked. 'Now that you're on a diet, right?'
He hadn't realized he was on a diet. 'And, by the way, when are you gonna learn 'Spanish Eyes' for me?' she asked. 'I almost have it down pat.' 'The Al Martino version, right?' 'Right.'
'Not the Backstreet Boys.'
'Right. My piano teacher says I'm almost there.' 'I want you to play it for my mother.' 'Maybe I should lose a few pounds first.' 'Nan, she's fat, too,' Patricia said, and burst out laughing.
Ollie found himself laughing, too. 'Two skim milks,' the waitress said, and set them down. 'Anything else?' she asked, and looked at Ollie expectantly.
'Thank you, no,' he said.
'You know,' Patricia said, 'fifty percent of all Americans want to lose twenty pounds, did you know that?'
'Yeah, well not me,' he said. 'I want to lose weight, too,' she said. 'You do?'
'Sure. Ten pounds or so. I would love to lose ten pounds or so.'
'You think I should lose ten pounds or so?' 'Well... to start.'
'Then what? Twenty pounds? Like fifty percent of Americans want to lose?'
'No, fifty pounds. Like twenty percent of Americans want to lose.'
Ollie looked at her. She grinned, shrugged. 'I made up that last statistic,' she said. 'Good thing. Cause I don't plan to lose no fifty damn pounds.'
'Okay, start with ten.'
'Ten, I could maybe manage.'
'Good, we'll both lose ten pounds.'
'Both of us, huh?'
Sure. We'll lose ten together.'
'Together,' he repeated.
Somehow, together sounded good.
This was all very strange.
'Patricia?' he said.
'Yes, Oil?'
'If Report to the Commissioner is ever published
Yes?'
'I'm gonna dedicate it to you.'
Her eyes went suddenly moist.
She squeezed his hands across the table.
This was all so very strange.
He sipped a little of the skim milk.
It tasted like goat piss.
MEYER WAS JUST about to sign out when the phone call came. He looked up at the wall clock. 3:43 p.m. 'Eighty-seventh Squad,' he said. 'Detective Meyer.' 'May I speak to Detective Carella, please?' 'Not in today. May I take a message?' 'Yes. Will you tell him Adam Fen called . . . ?' Meyer immediately looked at the caller ID number flashing on his screen. A 377 prefix. Right here in the precinct. He signaled to Parker across the room, waved
him over to the desk. On a sheet of paper, he scribbled the single word:
ADDRESS!
Parker nodded, wrote down the caller ID number, and went back to his own desk.
'Are you still there?' the Deaf Man asked.
'Still here,' Meyer said.
'I hope you're not doing what I think you're doing. I'll be gone long before you get here.'
'What is it you think I'm doing?'
'Please, dummy,' the Deaf Man said, 'you're way out of your league. Give this message to Carella. Have you got a pencil?'
'Ready,' Meyer said.
'Tell him a woman named Melissa Summers may try to leave the country in the next few days. Tell him
At his own desk, Parker was talking to a phone company supervisor, trying to get an address for the 377 number. With his free hand, Meyer gestured Hurry up!
'. . . to watch the airports. She's in possession of. . .'
'How do you spell that name, please?'
'Summer with an s on the end!' the Deaf Man shouted. 'Melissa Summers. Stop . . . stop trying to keep me on this line!'
He seemed to be suddenly struggling for breath.
'Are you okay?' Meyer asked.
'No, as a matter of fact, I've been shot. But don't . . .' He struggled for breath again. 'Don't bother putting out... a med alert, I've got my own doctor, thanks.'
'Why don't you let us come help you?' Meyer suggested. We'll get you to a hos ...'
'Please don't be ridiculous,' the Deaf Man said, and caught his breath again.
Across the room, Parker was just getting off the phone.
'Tell Carella she has the Strad.'
