'But it's what he told you, isn't it?'
'Yes, to impress me.'
'I see. To impress you. Did he give you a strip of roofers when you left the hotel?'
'As a matter of fact, he did. But roofers aren't a controlled substance.'
'Mr Hopwell, if I told you that an old man was drugged with Rohypnol and later hanged to make it look like a suicide, would you still believe John Bridges was trying to impress you when he told you he'd been paid five thousand . . .'
'He didn't say exactly that. You're putting words in my mouth.'
What'd he put in your mouth? Ollie wondered.
'What did he say, exactly?' Meyer asked.
'He was telling a story. He was saying suppose a person had been offered a certain amount of money . . .'
'Five thousand dollars.'
'Yes, he mentioned that sum. But it was all supposition. He was making up a story.'
'A story about someone who was offered five grand to kill someone . . .'
'He never used that word. He never said the word 'kill.' I'd have been out of there in a minute. He was just bragging. To impress me.'
'What word did he use?'
'I don't know, but it wasn't the word 'kill,' he never said anything about killing anyone. Listen, who remembers what he said? We were drinking a lot.'
'And smoking a lot of pot, too, is that right?'
'Well, a little.'
'Which is a controlled substance.'
'Haven't you ever smoked pot, Detective?'
'Did he mention any names?' Meyer asked.
'No.'
'Didn't say which old man he'd been hired to . . .'
'It was just a story.'
'Didn't say who had hired him to kill this old man?'
'A good story, that was all.'
'Didn't say who had given him the five grand he later used as his stake in the poker game . . .'
'He was just a terrific storyteller,' Hopwell said.
'You didn't think you should call the police after you heard this terrific story, huh?' Carella said.
'No, I didn't.'
'Don't you read the papers, Mr Hopwell?'
'Only for items about the reverend.'
'How about television? Don't you watch television?'
'Again, only to . . .'
'So when John Bridges told you he'd been paid five thousand dollars to kill an old man and make it look like . . .'
'He never used the word 'kill.' I told you that.'
'Whatever word or words he used, you never made a connection between what he was saying and a man named Andrew Hale, who'd been all over television that week?'
'Never. I still don't make any connection. I don't know anything about this old man you say was killed. Look, I told you John's name, I told you where he was staying. If he did something wrong, you'll have to take that up with him.'
'What else can you tell us about him?'
'He had a scar down the left-hand side of his face.'
'What kind of scar?'
'It looked like a knife scar.'
'You're just remembering a knife scar?' Ollie said. 'Guy has a fuckin knife scar on his face, and it's the last thing you mention about him?'
'I try not to notice deformities or infirmities,' Hopwell said.
'Do you remember any other deformities or infirmities?'
'No.'
'How about identifying marks or tattoos? Like a mole, for example, or a birth . . .'
'Well, yes, a tattoo,' Hopwell said, and hesitated. 'A blue star on the head of his penis.'
There was no one named John Bridges registered at the President Hotel. Nor had there been anyone registered under that name on the night of November sixth. When they gave the manager the description Hopwell had given them, he said he couldn't recall anyone who'd looked or sounded Jamaican, but this was a big hotel with thousands of guests weekly, and it was possible there'd been any number of Jamaicans registered on the night in question.
They checked the register for anyone from Houston, Texas. There'd been a guest from Fort Worth who'd checked in on the fourth and out the next night, and another from Austin, who was here with his wife and two kids; they did not bother him. Their computer showed no outstanding warrants for anyone named John Bridges. Neither was anyone listed under that name in the Houston telephone directory.
Carella called Houston Central and talked to a man
who identified himself as Detective Jack Walman. He told Carella he'd been a cop for almost twelve years now and knew most of the people doing mischief ir this town, but he'd never run across one had a knife scar down the left-hand side of his face and a blue stai tattooed on his pecker.
'That does beat all,' he said. 'What's the star stand for? The lone star state?'
'Could be,' Carella said.
'What I'll do,' he said, 'I'll run it through the computer. But that's an unusual combination, ain't it. and I'd sure remember something peculiar like that il I'd ever seen it. Unless, what coulda happened, he mighta got the knife scar before he got the tattoo. Lots of these guys get jailhouse tattoos, you know. In which case, there wouldn't be both of them on the computer, you follow? We get plenty knife scars down here. Is your man Chicano?'
'No. A Jamaican named John Bridges.'
'Well, we got something like two thousand Jamaicans here, too, so who knows? What'd he do, this dude?'
'Maybe killed two people.'
'Bad, huh?'
'Bad, yes.'
'Musta hurt, don't you think?' Walman said. 'Gettin tattooed that way?'
He called back an hour later to say he'd searched the system—city and state—for any felon named John Bridges and had come up blank. As he'd mentioned earlier, there were plenty facial scars in the state of Texas, and if Carella wanted him to fax printouts on each and every felon who had one, he'd be happy to oblige. But none of the facial scars came joined to tattooed dongs. One of the old-timers here at the station, though, remembered a guy
Ed McBam
one time had a little American flag tattooed on his wiener, if that was any help, it waved in the breeze whenever he got an erection. But he thought the guy was doing time at Angola, over Louisiana way. Aside from that, Walman was sorry he couldn't be of greater assistance. Carella asked him to please fax the facial-scar printouts, and thanked him for his time.
They were right back where they'd been on the morning of October twenty-ninth, when they'd first caught the squeal.
