'What do you do here, you just go from one liver to another?'
'Yep, that's all we do here,' Blaney said dryly. 'So what've you got for me?' Ollie asked.
There was nothing Meyer liked better than to irritate Fat Ollie Weeks. The man was calling to talk to Carella, but Carella was down the hall. Meyer could not resist the temptation.
'Do you plan to sue this guy?' he asked.
'What guy is that?' Ollie asked.
He had never sued anybody in his entire life. He figured the lawyers of the world were rich enough.
'This guy who wrote this book with a lot of police stuff in it.'
'What guy?' Ollie asked again.
'This Irishman who wrote a book. You're famous now, Ollie.'
'The fuck is that supposed to mean?' Ollie said.
'On the other hand, it does say in the front of the book that the names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously.'
'Wonderful,' Ollie said. 'Tell Steve I called, okay? I got to see him about something.'
''Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons is entirely coincidental,'' Meyer quoted. 'Is what it says. So I guess it is just a coincidence.'
'What is just a coincidence?' Ollie asked.
'His name being so similar to yours and all,' Meyer explained.
'Whose name?'
'This guy.'
'What guy?' Ollie asked for the third fuckin time.
'This guy in this police novel written by this Irish journalist.'
'Okay, I'll bite,' Ollie said.
'Fat Ollie Watts,' Meyer said, drawing the name out grandly. 'Not that anyone ever calls you Fat Ollie,' he added at once.
'They better not' Ollie said. 'What do you mean, Fat Ollie Watts?'
'Is the name of a character in this book.'
'A character! Fat Ollie Watts?'
'Yeah. But he's just a minor character.'
'A minor character?'
'Yeah, some kind of cheap thief.'
'Some kind of cheap thief!'
'Yeah.'
'Called Fat Ollie Watts!'
'Yeah. Pretty close, don't you think?'
'Close? It's right on the fuckin nosel'
'Well, no. Watts isn't Weeks.'
'It ain't, huh?'
'It's even spelled differently.'
'Oh, is that right?'
'I wouldn't worry about it.'
'On your block, Fat Ollie Watts ain't Fat Ollie Weeks, huh? Then what is it?'
'It's Watts.'
'Who the fuck is this guy?'
'Fat Ollie Watts,' Meyer said. 'I just told you.'
'Not him The guy who wrote the fuckin book Don't he even know I exist?'
'Gee, I guess not.'
'He's writing a book about cops and he never heard of me? A real person! He never heard of Oliver Wendell Weeks!'
'Oh, come on, Ollie, relax. This is just another
Thomas Harris ripoff serial-killer novel. I wouldn't worry about it.'
'Does this fuckin guy live on Mars, he never heard of me?'
'He lives in Ireland, I told you.'
'Where in Ireland? In some booth in a pub? In some stone hut by the side of the road? In some fuckin smelly bogl'
'Gee, I'm sorry I even mentioned it.'
'What's this guy's name?'
'I told you. Fat Ollie . . .'
'Not him,' Ollie said. 'The writer. The fuckin writerl'
'I'll tell you the truth,' Meyer said, grinning, 'I've already forgotten it.'
And hung up.
The two men met in a bar at five that afternoon. Both were officially off duty. Carella ordered a beer. Ollie ordered a Harvey Wallbanger.
'So what's this about?' Carella asked.
'I told you on the phone.'
'Some girl got stabbed . . .'
'Black girl named Althea Cleary. Eight times, according to the ME. Knife was still in her chest. Weapon of convenience. Matches the set in her kitchen. Thing that made me think of you was Blaney telling me . . .'
'Which Blaney?'
'I don't know. How many Blaneys are there?'
'Two. I think.'
'Well, this was one of them,' Ollie said. 'He told me the girl had maybe been doped. With guess what?'
Carella looked at him.
'Yeah,' Ollie said.
'Rohypnol?'
'Rohypnol. Hey, bartender!' he yelled. 'Excuse me, but did you put any vodka in this fuckin drink?'
'I put vodka in it,' the bartender said.
'Cause what I can do, I can take it down the police lab, we'll run some toxicological tests on it, see if there's any alcohol in it at all.'
'Everything's in it supposed to be in it,' the bartender said. 'That's a good strong drink you got there.'
'Then whyn't you make me another one just like it, on the house this time, it's so fuckin good.'
'Why on the house?' the bartender asked.
'Cause your toilet's leakin and your bathroom window's painted shut,' Ollie said. 'Those are both violations.'
Which they weren't.
'You're sure she was doped?' Carella said.
'According to Blaney.'
'And he's sure it was roofers?'
'Positive.'
'What you're suggesting is a link to my case.'
'By George, I think you've got it.'
'You're saying because they were both doped . . .'
'Yep.'
'. . . and later murdered, there's a link.'
'Which don't seem like too extravagant a surmise.'
'I think it's a very far reach, Ollie.'
'Here's your Wallbanger,' the bartender said, and banged it down on the bar.
Ollie shoved his chair away from the table and walked over to pick it up. Watching him, Carella thought he moved surprisingly fast for a fat man. Ollie lifted the glass, sipped at it, smacked his lips, said, 'Excellent, my good
