told them if a bookstore didn’t make it at Christ-mastime, it might as well fold. Ollie thought he was full of shit. That was because Ollie figured a Negro couldn’t possibly know anything about selling books.
It was now almost twelve noon on the twenty-eighth day of December, three days before New Year’s Eve, six minutes or so before lunch time. Ollie was always aware of the clock, but only because it announced mealtimes. He and Carella had been in the shop for almost ten minutes now, listening to this bald jackass telling them about the book business when all they wanted was information about Jerome Hoskins who’d been shot at the back of the head and stuffed in a garbage can four days ago.
“You sell many books from Wadsworth and Dodds?” Ollie asked. “In the three months before Christmas?” He was thinking these people would probably be his publishers once he finished his book, so he wanted to know how well their books sold.
“Not too many,” Jotham said. “They publish mostly technical stuff, you know.”
“What do you mean, technical?” Carella asked.
“Engineering stuff, architectural. Like that.”
“How about thrillers?” Ollie asked.
“Haven’t seen any thrillers from them,” Jotham said.
“They told me they do some thrillers.”
“Maybe so. I just haven’t seen any.”
“Did their salesman mention any thrillers to you?”
“No, I don’t recall him mentioning any thrillers.”
“Man named Jerome Hoskins? He never mentioned any thrillers to you?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“When’s the last time he came by?” Carella asked.
“Must’ve been in September? Maybe October. Sometime around then. That’s when most of the reps come around. Right after they have their sales conferences.”
“Was he in here last week?” Ollie asked.
“Nossir.”
“Two days before Christmas, to be exact.”
“Nossir, he definitely was not in here two days before Christmas.”
“You read newspapers?” Ollie asked.
“I do.”
“You watch television?”
“I do.”
“Read or see anything about Hoskins in the past few days?”
“No, I didn’t. What happened to him?”
“How do you know anything happened to him?” Carella asked.
Jotham gave him a look that said Man, when you were born and raised in this neighborhood and two cops come calling on you one fine morning, and start asking questions about the last time a sales rep was in here, you know damn well they ain’t here to buy no book about electrical engineering.
“Thanks for your time,” Carella said.
Not three blocks away from the bookstore, Wiggy the Lid was talking to the bartender at the Starlight Bar, where he’d met one of the blondes who’d cold-cocked him on Christmas night.
“I NEVER SEED HER before that night,” the bartender said.
“Just walked in out of the blue, is that it, John?”
“That’s what it was, Mr. Wiggins.”
“She ever been in here before?”
“Don’t recollect seeing her.”
“Or another blonde looked just like her?”
“I’d’ve remembered somebody looked like that,” John said.
“Neither one of them come in here, ast did a man named Wiggy Wiggins frequent this place?”
“No, neither one of ’em, Mr. Wiggins.”
“Man named Wiggy the Lid? Did either one of ’em come in here, ax for me by that name?”
“Nobody come in here axin for you by no name at all.”
“Cause I think she come in lookin for me, John.”
“I wouldn’t know about that.”
“I think she knew I’d be here, come in here lookin for me specific.”
