The Frumious Bandersnatch

“When in the spring?”

“He only said the spring. ‘In the spring, I’ll be on a beach in Jamaica.’ Was what he said.”

“So he might be in Jamaica right this minute, is that what you’re saying?”

“This is the spring, yes,” she said. “So he could be there now, yes. Who knows? I don’t even know where Jamaica is. Do you know where Jamaica is?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever been to Jamaica?”

“No, but I know where it is.”

“Where is it?”

“In the Caribbean.”

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

“Where’s that, the Caribbean?”

“It’s where Mr. Wilkins might be right this minute,” Hawes said.

“Mr.Who? ” she asked.

“Wilkins. Calvin Wilkins.”

“That’s not the name he gave me,” she said.

Hawes looked at her.

“He told me something else, not that.”

“What did he tell you?”

“I have to look,” she said.

They followed her downstairs to her apartment. There were beaded curtains and a double bed, and a calendar with Arabic lettering on it. She opened the top drawer of a small painted chest and took from it a ledger of some sort. She opened the book, trailed her forefinger down the page. Her fingernails were painted a green the color of the stone in the ring.

“Here,” she said, and tapped one of the names.

They looked at the page.

The name written there in a delicate feminine hand was:

Richard Martin

“Ricky, that’s right,” the landlady said.

“Ricky Martin,” Hawes said.

“Yes. That’s who his friends asked for, first time they came here.”

“Ricky Martin,” Hawes said again.

“Yes.”

“Ricky Martin is a singer.”

“This man was asinger? ”

“No, this man was a thief. RickyMartin is the singer.”

“He lived here more than a month, I never heard him sing,” the woman said, and shrugged again under the black garment.

“Did he say where he might be going? When he left here?”

“I told you. Jamaica.”

“I mean in January. When he moved out. Right then. Where was he going? Did he tell you?”

“Yes, he told me.”

“Where?”

“To stay with his friends. I think perhaps they had in mind amenage a trois, eh? Perhaps that’s why he was in such a big hurry.”

Hawes had once known a woman named Jeanette, or was it Annette, who’d called it a “menagedetrois. ” For the longest time, he himself had called it that.

“Are you fellows in such a big hurry, too?” the landlady asked. “Or shall I brew the three of us some nice jasmine tea?”

Laurette, Hawes guessed it was.

“Thanks,” he said, “you’ve been very helpful.”

“You think it’s because of the record store?” she asked.

Neither of the detectives knew what she meant.

“That he picked a singer’s name?”

They still didn’t know what she meant.

“Because he worked in a record store?” she said.

“Which one?” Carella asked at once.

“Laura something,” she said. “In the city. Someplace downtown.”

SOMEPLACEdowntown could have been anywhere.

In this city, when you crossed any of the bridges from the outlying sectors, you were heading into “The City.” And once you got into the city, you invariably headed “downtown” because that’s where all the action was.

They started with the yellow pages for Isola, a literal translation of the Italian word“isola,” for “island.” They looked first under RECORDS, TAPES & COMPACT DISCS, and found a sub-heading that readSee Compact Discs, Tapes & Records— Retail. They turned back to the Cs, and found a listing for exactly one hundred and twelve record shops. None of them were named Laura Something or Laura Anything. Under the L listings, they found seventeen. They called Wilkins’ former landlady at once.

“Do any of these names ring a bell?” they asked, and started reeling them off. “L&M Records, Lane Books Music & Cafe…”

“No,” she said.

“Lark Music, Laurence’s Records, Lewis Music & Video, Lexington Entertainment, Lion Heart Record Shop…”

“No, none of those.”

“Live Wire Compact Discs, Lone Star Records, Long John’s Music, Lorelei Records, Lotus…”

“What was that Laura one?”

“Ma’am?”

“LauraLee, was that it?”

“Lorelei Records? Is that what you mean?”

“That’s it,” she said. “Laura Lie.”

Lorelei Records was a chain of shops similar to Sam Goody’s. There were six of them in Isola alone, but only two of them were located in what might have been considered “downtown,” one of them on St. John’s Avenue in what was really “midtown,” the other one in the financial district at the very tip of the island. They struck paydirt on the first call they made.

“I THOUGHTyou said nothing fancy,” Patricia said.

“Nah, this is just a little Italian joint,” Ollie said, and held open the door for her to enter before him.

“This is fancy,” she said. “We’ll make it Dutch tonight.”

“No, no, I invited you.”

“Yeah, but I picked the movie.”

“Makes no difference. This is my treat. You want to take me out sometime, then you ask me.”

Patricia grinned.