to Mr Hale's apartment and roaring down the hallway.
She can make out words as she approaches the door
to A. Mr Hale's visitor is shouting something about the
chance of a lifetime. He is telling Mr Hale that only a fool
would pass up this opportunity, this is something that is
coming his way by sheer coincidence, he should thank
his lucky stars. You can make millions, the man shouts.
You're being a goddamn jackass!
She is standing just outside Mr Male's door now.
She is almost afraid of knocking, the man sounds so
violent. At the same time, she is afraid not to knock. Suppose he does something to Mr Hale? He sounds apoplectic. Suppose he hurts Mr Hale?
The voice stops abruptly the moment she knocks on
the door.
'Yes?'
'Mr Hale? It's me. Katherine Kipp.'
'Just a second, Mrs Kipp.'
The door opens. Mr Hale is wearing a cardigan sweater over an open-throat shirt and corduroy trousers. The man sitting at the kitchen table is drinking a cup of coffee.
'Do you know Mr Hale's son-in-law?' Kling asked.
'Yes, I do.'
'Was that who the man was?'
'Oh no.'
'Do you know who the man was?'
'No. Well, I'd recognize him if I saw him again. But
no, I don't know him.'
'Mr Hale didn't introduce him or anything?'
'No.'
'What'd he look like?' Kling asked.
Walter Hopwell worked with at least a dozen other people on the top floor of the church. These people had nothing to do with church hierarchy. Up here, there were no deacons,
no trustees, no pastor's aides, no church secretaries or announcement clerks. Instead, these men and women
were all employees hired by Foster to generate the personal publicity, promotion, and propaganda that had
kept him in the public eye and the political arena for the
past ten years. Except for three young white men and a
white woman, all of them were black.
Here in Hopwell's small private office, a room hung
with photographs of Malcolm X, Martin Luther King,
and Nelson Mandela, its windows dripping rainsnakes,
Carella and Meyer talked to Hopwell while Fat Ollie stood by with a somewhat supercilious smirk on his face, as if certain that the man they were questioning was an ax murderer at best or a serial killer at worst. Hopwell looked like neither. A slender man with finely sculpted features and a head shaved as bald as Meyer's, he wore black jeans, a black turtleneck sweater, and a fringed suede vest. A small gold earring pierced his left ear lobe. Ollie figured this was some kind of signal to other faggots. Or was that the right ear?
'Danny Nelson was killed yesterday morning, did you
know that?' Carella asked.
'Yes, I saw it on television,' Hopwell said.
'How'd you happen to know him?' Meyer asked.
'He did some work for me.'
'Oh?'
'What kind of work?' Carella asked.
'Research,' Hopwell said.
Ollie rolled his eyes.
'What sort of research?' Meyer asked.
'Information on people who've been critical of Reverend Foster.'
A fuckin snitch researcher, Ollie thought.
'How long was he doing this for you?'
'Six months or so.'
'You knew him for six months?'
'Yes.'
'Came here to the church, did he?'
'Yes. With his reports.'
'What'd you do with these reports?'
'I used them to combat false rumors and specious innuendoes.'
'How?'
'In our printed material. And in the reverend's radio
addresses.'
'When I met with Danny yesterday morning,' Carella
said, 'he mentioned a card game you'd been in . . .'
'Yes.'
'. . . with a man from Houston.'
'Yes.'
'Who won a lot of money.'
'Yes, he did.'
'Did you have a conversation with this man afterward?'
'We had a drink together, yes. And shared some conversation.'
'Did he mention having killed someone?'
Gee, that's subtle, Ollie thought.
'No, he didn't say he'd killed anyone.'
'What did he say?'
'Am I getting involved in something here?' Hopwell
asked.
'We're trying to locate this man,' Meyer said.
'I don't see how I can help you do that.'
'We understand you know where he is.'
'No, I don't.'
'Danny said you know this man's name . . .'
'Yes, I do.'
'. . . and where he's staying.'
'Well, I know where he was on Saturday night. I
don't know if he's there now. I haven't seen him since
last Saturday night.'
'What's his name?' Carella asked.
'John Bridges was what he told me.'
