the tank. The paneled doors opening on the service bays were closed tight against the frigid air. In the station's warmly lighted office, a man wearing a brown uniform and a peaked brown hat sat with his feet up on the desk, reading a copy of Penthouse. He looked up when the detectives came in. The stitched name on the front of his uniform read Ralph.
Carella showed the tin.
'Detective Carella,' he said. 'My partner, Detective Hawes.'
'Ralph Bonelli. What's up?'
'We're trying to trace a gun that...'
'That again?' Bonelli said, and looked heavenward. 'Any idea what happened to it?'
'No. I told Pratt nobody here knew anything about it. That hasn't changed.'
'Who'd you ask?'
'The mechanic who worked on it. Gus. He didn't see it. Some of the other guys who were working on
Friday. None of them saw any gun.'
'How many other guys?'
'Two, They're not mechanics, they just pump gas.' 'So Gus is the only one who worked on the car.' 'Yeah, the only one.' 'Where'd he Work on it?'
'One of the service bays in there,' Bonelli said, and gestured with his head. 'Had it up on the hydraulic lift.' 'Key in it?'
'Yeah, he had to drive it in, didn't he?'
'How about when he was finished with it? Where'd the key go then?'
'Key box there on the wall,' Bonelli said, indicating a grey metal cabinet fastened to the wall near the cash register. A small key was sticking out of a keyway on the door.
'Do you ever lock that cabinet?'
'Well... no.'
'Leave the key in it all the time?'
'I see where you're going, but you're wrong Nobody who works here stole that gun.'
'Well, it was in the glove compartment when
Pratt drove the car in...'
'That's what he says.'
'You don't think it was, huh?'
'Did I see it? Did anybody see it? We got only jig's word for it.'
'Why would he say there was a gun in the compartment if there wasn't one?'
'Maybe he wanted me to write off the repair job, who knows?'
'What do you mean?'
'A trade, you know? He forgets the gun, we forget the bill.'
'You think that's what he had in mind, huh?' 'Who knows?'
'Well, did he actually suggest anything like that?' 'No, I'm just saying.'
'So, actually,' Hawes said, 'you have no reason to believe there wasn't a gun in that glove compartment?'
'Unless the jig had some other reason to be about it.'
'Like what?'
'Maybe he had some use for it later on. Claim it was stolen, build an alibi in advance, you follow?'
'Can you write down the names of everyone who was working here while the car was in the shop?' Carella asked.
'Would anyone else have access to that key cabinet? Aside from your people?' Hawes asked.
'Sure. Anybody walking in and out of the office But there's always one of us around.
'we would have seen anybody trying to get in the cabinet.' 'Addresses and phone numbers, too,' Carella said.
Despite the cold, the blonde was wearing only a brief black miniskirt, a short red fake-fur jacket, gartered black silk stockings and high-heeled, red leather, ankle-high boots. A matching red patent-leather clutch handbag was tucked under her arm. Her naked thighs were raw from the wind, and her feet were freezing cold in the high-heeled boots. Shivering, she stood on the corner near the traffic light, where any inbound traffic from Majesta would have to stop before moving into the city proper.
The girl's name was Yolande.
She was free, white, and nineteen years old, but she was a hooker and a crack addict, and she was here on the street at this hour of the morning because she hoped to snag a driver coming in, and spin him around the block once or twice while she gave him a fifty dollar blow job.
Yolande didn't know it, but she would be dead in three hours.
The detectives coming out of the gas station office spotted the blonde standing on the corner, recognized her for exactly what she was, but didn't glance again in her direction. Yolande recognized them as well, for exactly what they were, and watched them warily as they climbed into an unmarked, dark blue sedan. A white Jaguar pulled to the curb where she was standing. The window on the passenger side slid
noiselessly down. The traffic light bathed the car the sidewalk and Yolande in red. She waited until she saw a plume of exhaust smoke billow from the dark sedan up the street. Then she leaned to the window of the car at the curb, smiled and said 'Hey, hiya. Wanna party?'
'How much?' the driver asked.
The changing traffic light suddenly turned everything to green.
A moment later, the two vehicles moved off opposite directions.
The night was young.
They found Gus Mondalvo in an underground club a largely Hispanic section of Riverhead. This was a little past four in the morning. His mother, refused to open the door of her apartment repeated declarations that they were police, told them they could find her son at the Club Fajardo 'up block,' which is where they were now, trying to convince the heavyset man who opened the door that they weren't here to bust the place.
The man protested in Spanish that they weren't serving liquor here, anyway, so what was there bust? This was just a friendly neighborhood club having a little party, they could come in and see for themselves, all of this while incriminating bottles and glasses were being whisked from behind the bar and off the table tops By the time he took off the some five minutes later, you would have thought it was a teenage corner malt shop instead of a club selling booze after hours to a clientele that included
kids. The man who let them in told them Gus was sitting at the bar drinking... 'But nothing alcoholic,' he added hastily. and pointed him out to them. A Christmas tree stood in the corner near the bar, elaborately decorated, extravagantly lighted. The detectives made their way across a small dance floor packed with teenagers dancing and groping to Ponce's Golden Oldies, moved past tables where boys and girls, men and women alike were all miraculously drinking Coca-Cola in bottles, and approached the stool where Gus Mondalvo sat sipping what looked like a lemonade.
'Mr. Mondalvo?' Hawes asked.
Mondalvo kept sipping his drink.
'Police,' Hawes said, and flipped a leather case open to show his shield.
There are various ways to express cool when responding to a police presence. One is to feign total indifference to the fact that cops are actually here and may be about to cause trouble. Like 'I've been through this a hundred times before, man, and it don't faze me, so what can I do for you?' Another is to display indignation. As, for example, 'Do you realize who I am? How dare you embarrass me this way in a public place?' The third is to pretend complete ignorance. Cops. Are you really cops? Gee. What business on earth could cops possibly have with me?' Mondalvo turned slowly on his stool. 'Hi,' he said, and smiled.
They had seen it all and heard it all.
This time around, it would be pleasant indifference.
'Mr. Mondalvo,' Hawes said, 'we understand you worked on the engine of a Cadillac belonging to a Rodney Pratt on Friday, would you remember doing that?'
'Oh, sure,' Mondalvo said. 'Listen, do you think we'd be more comfortable at a table? Something to drink? A Coke? A ginger ale?'
