Francaise, they found a safe deposit box key in a little red packet with a snap catch.
A pile of rubber-banded hundred-dollar bills was resting on edge, at the right hand side of the drawer.
There were eighty of them.
$8,000 in cash.
They wished they could take a peek at her Banque Francaise safe deposit box, but this was the Saturday before Christmas Day, and the bank had closed at noon. Even a court order would not get it to open again before Tuesday morning, the twenty-sixth.
They went to see Manuel Escovar instead.
THE STREETS OF Little Santo Domingo were ablaze with light when they got there at eight that night. Stringed white lights hung from sidewalk to sidewalk, and dancing red and green lights flashed in every window overlooking the street. Spotlighted banners wishedFELIZNAVIDAD to the world. All up and down the street, pushcarts lighted with flashlights displayed last-minute gifts ranging from Louis Vuitton handbags to Hermes scarves and Rolex watches. Christmastime was the biggest thriller of the year, and the countdown had begun in earnest.
“All of this shit fell off the back of a truck,” Ollie commented.
They found Escovar in a little bar off Swift Street, where he was enjoying a few beers with his cronies before heading off to work at eleven. Nervously, he told them his shift began at midnight and ended at eight in the morning. Anything more than two beers would be dangerous, he told them, but he assured them he was all right with just two. Ollie suspected Mr. Escovar here did not have a green card. He suspected the man did not wish the slightest bit of trouble with the law. Which was why his hands were trembling as he smilingly explained that he was just a mellow little man with a sporty little mustache enjoying a few peaceful brews with his pals. My ass, Ollie thought. Instinctively, he knew Escovar had something to hide if only because he was a spic.
“There’s a woman who lives at 321 South Ealey,” Ollie said. “Her name’s Cassandra Jean Ridley. Does that name mean anything to you?”
“Miss Ridley, yes,” Escovar said, nodding at once. “Appar’menn nine C.”
“That’s the one,” Ollie said. “Did you see her leaving the building at anytime late last night, early this morning?”
Escovar thought this one over. Because he’s getting ready to lie, Ollie thought. He had never met anyone of Spanish descent who gave you a straight answer. Then again, he had never met any Jew, Chinaman, Polack, Irishman, or Wop, for that matter—present company excluded—who could look you in the eye and give you an unequivocal yes or no. Ollie was a consummate bigot. He knew that virtually everyone he met in this business was inferior to Detective/First Grade Oliver Wendell Weeks. That was simply the way it was, kiddies, take it or leave it. Otherwise, a fart on thee.
Escovar’s drinking buddies had moved from the bar to one of the booths, but they were watching the action here with intense interest now. Ollie glanced in their direction, and they all turned their heads away. He figuredthey didn’t have green cards, either. Escovar was still thinking.
“Take all the time you need, ah yes,” Ollie said, doing his world-famous W. C. Fields imitation.
Escovar took the suggestion to heart, the dumb little spic. The detectives waited.
“This might have been very early in the morning,” Carella suggested. “Four, five o’clock, around then.”
“I’m trine to remember,” Escovar said.
Try speaking a little English, Ollie thought.
“She might have seemed disoriented,” Carella said.
She might have had an ice pick in her forehead, Ollie thought.
“I thought she wass drunk,” Escovar said.
The way he finally tells it, Miss Ridley got out of the elevator at about four-thirty this morning, accompanied by two girls—he called them “gorls”—one on each side of her, each holding one of her arms to support her, it looked like to him.
“Can you describe these girls?” Carella asked.
“They wass big gorls. Very tall.”
“White? Black? Hispanic?”
“White,” Escovar said.
“What color hair? Black? Blond? Red?”
“It wass two blondies,” Escovar said.
Blondies, Ollie thought. Jesus.
“Skinny? Fat?” he asked.
“They wass wearin overcoats.”
Ollie wondered what the fuck that had to do with the question.
“You can still tell if a person’s skinny or fat,” he said. “Look at me. Am I skinny or fat?”
Escovar hesitated.
“Go ahead, you won’t hurt my feelings, I know I’m fat.”
“If you say so,” Escovar said shrewdly.
“In fact, I like being fat. It means I eat good.”
