When he answered the door at ten to six that morning, he was wearing long woolen underwear and along- sleeved woolen top. He looked like he needed a shave but he was merely growing a beard. He was twenty years old, give or take, a scrawny kid who hated this country and who would have wet the bed at night if he wasn't sleeping in it with two other guys. The detectives identified themselves. Nodding, Sikhar stepped out into the hallway, closing the door behind him, whispering that he did not wish to awaken his 'mates,' as he called them, an archaic term from the days of British rule back home, those bastards. When he learned what their business here was, he excused himself and went back inside for a moment, stepping into the hallway again a moment later, wearing along black overcoat over his long johns, unlaced black shoes on his feet. They stood now beside a grimy hall
window that sputtered orange neon from outside. Sikhar lighted a cigarette. Neither Carella or Hawes smoked. They both wished they could arrest him.
'So what is this about a pistol?' he asked
'Everyone wishes to know about this pistol.' 'The feathers, too,' Carella said. 'And the bird shit,' Hawes said.
'Such a mess,' Sikhar agreed, nodding, puffing the cigarette, holding it the way Peter Lorre did in Maltese Falcon. He himself looked something ofa mess, but perhaps that was because the deveh beard looked like a smudge on his face
'What kind of feathers were they, would you know?' Hawes asked.
'Pigeon feathers, I would say.'
'Why would you say that?'
'There are many pigeons near the bridge.'
'And you think some of them got in the car somehow, is that it?'
'I think so, yes. And panicked. Which is why shit all over everything.'
'Pretty messy in there, huh?' Carella said.
'Oh yes.'
'How do you suppose they got out again?' Hawes asked.
'Birds have ways,' Sikhar said.
He looked at the men mysteriously.
They looked back mysteriously.
'How about the gun?' Carella said.
'What gun?'
'You know what gun.'
Sikhar dropped the cigarette to the floor, ground it out under the sole of one black shoe, and took a crumpled package of Camels from the right-hand pocket of the long black coat. 'Cigarette?' he asked, offering the pack first to Carella and next to Hawes, both of whom refused, each shaking his head somewhat violently. Sikhar did not get the subtle message. He fired up at once. Clouds of smoke billowed into the hallway, tinted orange by the sputtering neon outside the window. For some peculiar reason, Carella thought of Dante's inferno. 'The gun,' he prompted.
'The famous missing pistol,' Sikhar said. 'I know nothing about it.'
'You spent an hour or so in that car, didn't you? Cleaning up the mess?'
'A terrible mess,' Sikhar agreed.
'Did the birds get anywhere near the glove compartment?'
'No, the mess was confined exclusively to the backseat.'
'So you spent an hour or so in the backseat of the car.' 'At least.'
'Never once went into the front seat?'
'Never. Why would I? The mess was in the backseat.'
'I thought, while you were cleaning the car...' 'No.'
'You might have gone up front, given the dashboard a wipe...'
'No,'
'The glove compartment door, give everything a wipe up there, too.'
'No, I didn't do that.' 'Then you wouldn't know whether the compartment was unlocked or not, would you?'
'I would not know.'
'What time did you start work on the car?'
'When I got there. Jimmy showed me the mess told me to clean it up. I got immediately to work.' 'What time was that?' 'About seven o'clock.' 'On Saturday morning.'
'Yes, Saturday. I work six days a week,' he said pointedly, and looked at his watch. It was now close six o'clock on Sunday morning. Dawn would come in an hour and fifteen minutes.
'Anybody else come near that car while you were in it?'
'Yes.'
'Who?'
'Jose Santiago.'
The thing Richard the Fourth did up here in Diamondback was sell crack cocaine to nice little like the three Richards he was now leading up the street to an underground bar where he promised them there'd be girls aplenty. Richard's family name was Cooper, and he was sometimes called Coop by people who wanted to get friendly with him, not knowing he despised the name Coop. This was the same as some jackass coming up to some dude and slamming him on the back and yelling in his face, 'Hey, remember me,
Sal?' Only his fuckin name ain't Sal, dig? Richard's name was Richard, and that was what he preferred being called, thank you. Certainly not Coop, nor Rich or Richie neither, nor even Ricky or Rick. Just plain Richard. Like the three Richards with him now, who he was telling about these quite nice jumbo vials he happened to have in his pocket, would they care for a taste at fifteen a pop?
The crack and the money were changing hands, black to white and white to black, when the taxi pulled up to the curb, and along-legged white girl in a fake-fur jacket and red leather boots stepped out. The driver's window rolled down. The driver looked somewhat dazed; as if he'd been hit by a bus. 'Thanks, Max,' the girl said, and blew him a kiss, and was swiveling onto the sidewalk, a slender, red, patent leather bag under her arm, when Richard Cooper said, 'Hey, Yolande, you jess the girl we lookin for.'
Fifty-six minutes later, she was dead.
She has done three-ways before, but this is what promises to be a four-way and then possibly if Richard puts in his two cents. She knows from the hood, he deals good shit. In fact, he used to be in business together with Jamal for some time they went their separate ways. She is not eager for this to turn into a five-way with Richard the equation, but as Jamal is fond of saying, 'Business is business and never the twain shall meet.'
At the same time, it's been a very busy night, God, and she's really very sleepy, and would like nothing better than to go back to the pad and present Jamal with the spoils of the night, so to speak, and cuddle with him a little, he is very good at cuddlin when you lay almost two thousand bucks on him. Richard here is talking six hundred for the preppies here, two hundred apiece for the next hours, and giving her the nod to indicate he must wet his wick a bit, too, in which case he will put into the pot five jumbos.
What he is suggesting and she is considering seriously now, even though she is bone-tired and besides is that they all go up to his place to do crack and get down to realities, sistuh, you hear what I'm sayin? She is thinking six hundred and the jumbos, which at today's market price is fifteen for the red-topped vials, and wondering how she can escalate
thing a bit higher, it being so late at night or so early in the morning, depending on where you're coming from. She wonders if they'll go for a big one and ten jumbos. She decides that's too far a reach. Instead, she tells Richard and the three preppies who are nodding sympathetically while ripping off her clothes with their eyes tells Richard she's been out since eleven last night and it's been along one, bro, so maybe we ought to just pass unless we can sweeten the pot a little, hm? He asks her what she means by sweeten it, how sweet does she wish to sweeten it, and she decides to push the envelope, what the hell.
'If you'll be joining the party,' she says, I'll need ten jumbos...'
'No problem,' Richard says at once.
Jesus! she thinks.