by Ed McBain
The girls on stroll that night spotted Ollie for a cop the moment he entered the street. Maybe it was the arrogant stride, or the know-it-all look on his face. Or maybe it was because, first of all, he was on foot, and next he didn’t seem to be seriously looking for a piece of ass. The hungry, desperate, guilty appearance of a bona fide john just wasn’t there. In ten seconds flat, half the girls on the street disappeared into doorways, or walked around the corner, or simply went home for the night, they didn’t need trouble from a fat flatfoot. The other half were otherwise engaged in parked automobiles all up and down the street. Ollie floated up Ho Alley like an aircraft carrier steaming into the Persian Gulf. He was looking for a blond Puerto Rican cross-dressing hooker named Emilio Herrera.
The first girl he talked to was just coming out of a parked Caddy near the closed Korean nail place up the block. She swung her legs out of the car, adjusted her short skirt, waggled her fingers goodbye to the white man behind the wheel, and turned to find a person who weighed perhaps a ton and a half standing there in her path, oh shit, she thought, a cop. The Caddy pulled away from the curb in a wink.
“Hi,” she said cheerily. “You lost?”
“I’m looking for a friend of mine,” Ollie said.
“Oh?” the girl said, and looked him up and down. “Maybe I can help instead.”
Maybe he wasn’t a cop after all. Though a quick glance up the street revealed an amazing lack of pulchritude on display, a sure sign that the other girls on stroll had made him for what he was and had split the scene toot sweet.
“I’m really looking for this one particular person,” Ollie said.
Still hadn’t flashed the tin, though, so who could tell? And if he was merely here looking for sex, why hand him over to anyone else?
“What’s her name?” she asked. “Though, you know, maybe I can help you.”
“She’s a he,” Ollie said, and grinned like a hyena. “Emilio Herrera, you know her? Him?”
“No, I’m sorry, I don’t,” the girl said at once, and then, “In fact, I was on my way home, so if you’ll excuse me…”
“Hold it just a second,” Ollie said. He was still smiling. The girl was thinking he was either a fat pig of a john who dug boys, in which case she didn’t want to have anything to do with him, or else he was a fat pig of a cop looking to bust Emilio for narcotics use or breaking and entry, both of which pursuits Emilio was pretty good at. In which case she still didn’t want to have anything to do with him.
“Emmy?” he said. “He goes by the name Emmy?”
“Never heard of him or her,” the girl said.
“And what’s your name?”
“Why is that important to you?”
“Because we like to know who’s impeding the progress of a police investigation,” he said, and out came the tin, all blue and gold, Detective/First Grade it said on it. Oh shit, she thought again.
“I’m Talu,” she said.
“Talu indeed,” he said, “ah yes.”
She wondered who he was imitating.
He sounded like Al Pacino in some movie she saw ages ago, before she got in the life.
She was wondering, too, how she could get him off her back about Emilio, whom she knew only as a transvestite junkie who catered to faggots who didn’t know they were faggots. She didn’t want trouble here tonight. A minute ago, she’d told him she was on her way home. Right now, that’s all she wanted to do, go home, fast.
“And what may your last name be, m’little chickadee?”
“Diaz,” she said.
“In which case, you might be familiar with this Herrera girl or boy, as the case may be, who is yet another person of the Hispanic persuasion, not to mention the profession you both share.”
“I don’t know what profession that is you’re talking about,” Talu said.
“Ah me, a poor innocent adrift on the night,” Ollie said.
“If you don’t mind, Detective, I’d really like to go home now.”
“Ah, but I thought I detected a faint glimmer in your eye when I mentioned the name Herrera,” Ollie said.
“No, I don’t know the man.”
“Then I must have been mistaken, Talu.”
“Yes, you surely were.”
“In which case, do go home. And may God bless you,” he said.
She couldn’t believe her own ears.
She turned and was out of there in a Taliban minute.
Ollie was thinking he’d hit the files when he got back to the office, see if they had anything that might connect little Miss Talu Diaz here, with her twitchy little ass and mile-high heels, to Mr. Emilio Herrera, with his blond wig and big tits, who had not showed up on the computer, and who so far was—
A redheaded girl wearing a short black skirt and a pink halter top was coming around the corner. She spotted Ollie, smiled, came swiveling over on her spike heels, and said, “I’m Anya,” it sounded like. “Looking for a date, sweetheart?”
• • •
“IT’S DEFINITELY YOU he’s looking for,” Aine said. “He gave me your name. Emilio Herrera. He gave me your street name, too. Emmy. He said you’re a blonde with big tits.”
“Well, I am,” Emilio said, and laughed.
He was high on marijuana. This was unusual for a heroin addict. She almost resented him being high. In fact, she did resent it. She was trying to give him important information here, and he was acting like a giggly little girl.
“Now that is very funny,” he said, and laughed. “A big fat cop looking to fuck a little Puerto Rican boy with fake tetas. That is truly comical.”
“He wasn’t looking for sex,” Aine said. “He was looking for you. Do you understand me? He thinks you’re involved in some kind of crime.”
“Well, I am,” Emilio said, and laughed again. “Did he say which crime? Did he say possession, did he say burglary, did he say grand theft, auto, did he say prostitution? I am involved in a great many crimes, Aine. The man should have been more specific.”
“Well, he wasn’t. He was on a fishing expedition, is what it was.”
“But you got the feeling he thought I was involved in some crime or another.”
“Yes, that’s the impression I got.”
“He told you he was looking for me…”
“Yes.”
“…because I was involved in some crime or…”
“No.”
“He did not say I was involved in some…?”
“No, he didn’t come out and say that. But it’s what I discerned.”
He loved it when she used big words. He found it very amusing when she used big words. He wondered what crime he was supposed to be involved in. What did this fat cop want from him? Did he even know any fat cops?
“A fat cop, did you say?”
“Oh man, fat,” Aine said, and rolled her eyes.
“Did he tell you his name?”
“Detective Weeks.”
“From what precinct?”
“The Eight-Eight.”
“I’ll bet he thinks I’m involved in that diamond deal.”
“What diamond deal?”
“In Livvie’s report.”
“Who the fuck is Livvie?”
“The report she wrote.”
“Oh, that again,” Aine said.
“I’ll bet he’s after all those blood diamonds Livvie is locked up with in that basement,” Emilio said, and suddenly looked very sober, though he wasn’t. “Do you think it was her?” he asked. “Do you think she got out of that basement somehow? Do you think she might be somehow involved in the big dope deal going down? Though I have to say I didn’t see no dope down there, did you see any dope down there?”
“You know I didn’t.”
“Are you sure you heard the address right? 3211 Culver?”
“I’m sure I heard what I heard,” Aine said.
“Maybe we should check out that bar you located,” Emilio said.
“What do you think, Aine?”
&nbs
p; “You got any more of that grass?” Aine said.
14
THE MINUTE OLLIE walked through the door of his apartment, the phone started ringing. He ran across the room, and was breathless when he picked up the receiver. Fats Donner was on the other end.
“I found your opera singer,” he said. “Where can we meet?”
Ollie named a pizzeria on Culver and Sixth; what the hell, he thought, kill two birds with one stone.
“And don’t bring your kindergarten class,” he said.
“I’ll pretend I don’t understand that,” Donner said, and hung up.
Ollie grabbed a bite from the fridge before heading out.
IF DONNER WAS remembering correctly, this was the same pizzeria where two hitters shot and killed Danny Gimp not too very long ago. This made him uneasy. He dimly recalled that the killing had had nothing at all to do with the profession he and Danny shared, but it still made him nervous to be sitting here in a public place with a cop as conspicuously large as Ollie, especially since he himself was not all that invisible. Such a pair could easily attract attention, he figured, and wished he’d asked Ollie to meet him at The Samuel Baths again.
“So who is she?” Ollie asked.
“How’d you make out with Herrera?”
“So far, he ain’t worth the deuce I paid you, and I ain’t all over him like fleas, either.”
“Maybe you’re not such a good detective, dad.”
“Maybe I am. Maybe it’s your information that stinks.”
“Then maybe you don’t want to know who this opera singer is.”
“Maybe you’d like to give me her name free of charge, considering the Emilio Herrera stuff wasn’t worth shit.”
“He’s out there, all you have to do is find him. Do you want this on the opera singer, or do I walk?”
“Let’s have a pizza,” Ollie said.
They ordered two pizzas, not for nothing were they men of considerable girth. Ollie ordered another one, which they split. Donner was thinking Ollie would try again for a free ride here. He was right.
“So tell me her name,” Ollie said.
“I’ll need a hundred.”
“I already gave you two.”
“This is fresh information.”
“Like the last information was fresh, huh? Who has no record in the files and who I still can’t find on the street.”
“Maybe you’re looking on the wrong street.”
“Tell me why I should trust this new stuff?”
“Sure, dad. Number one, she is an opera singer. Number two…”
“She what?”
“She’s an opera singer. In fact, she’s currently doing a recital at Clarendon Hall. Are you familiar with Clarendon Hall?”
“Where the terrorists hit around New Year’s?”
“The very.”
“She’s singing there?”
“Right now.”
“Thanks,” Ollie said. “Then I won’t need her name.”
“You aced me, you fat hump,” Donner said, and bit into his pizza.
• • •
VERONICA D’ALLESANDRO was still onstage when Ollie got to Clarendon Hall at ten-thirty that night. He showed the manager his police identification and told him it was urgent that he speak to Miss D’Allesandro as soon as she came off. The manager thought this was about another terrorist attack.
Ever since the Israeli violinist was killed by a suicide bomber here last December, everyone in the city was on edge. The World Trade Center attacks hadn’t helped much, either. Nor had what happened at the Pentagon. This was a nation of people walking on eggs. You saw anybody who looked like an Arab, you wanted to call the FBI. Ollie hated Arabs as much as he hated Jews or anybody else in this world. Ollie was an equal opportunity bigot. He felt anyone who didn’t look or sound the way he himself did deserved a swift kick in the ass. The manager’s name was Horowitz, which Ollie would have considered a major coincidence if he’d been at all familiar with classical music, which he wasn’t. All he heard was a money-lending Jewish name, and suspected Horowitz would charge admission to go backstage. He was surprised when the man took him at once to the singer’s dressing room.
Veronica D’Allesandro looked like that lady in all the Marx Brothers films, Geraldine Dumont or whatever her name was. A pouter pigeon chest with pearls hanging down its front, her hair clipped close to her head in what used to be called a bob, a pretty face for a woman her age. Ollie told her how much he’d enjoyed her performance, which he hadn’t even heard, and then asked her if perchance she had purchased from a Jewish pawnbroker named Irving Stein a tan pigskin Gucci dispatch case…
“Why yes!” she said, her eyes opening wide in surprise.
Ollie figured he’d impressed her.
“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Miss Doll-a-sandri,” he said, “but that case was stolen and is…”
“No!” she said.
“Ah, but yes,” he said. “It is evidence sought in an auto smash-and-grab that took place on April twenty-second, the day before you purchased it.”
“Oh dear,” she said.
“I’m afraid I must reclaim that case,” Ollie said. “Would you happen to…?”
“But I paid for it!”
“Seven dollars, if I’m correct.”
He was already reaching for his wallet.
“Yes, seven dollars,” she said, shaking her head in wonder.
Ollie figured he was still impressing her.
“The Department is required to reimburse you for reclaimed evidence,” he said, which wasn’t true. “Would you happen to have the case here with you?”
“Yes. I bought it for my music. I was carrying my music in it.”
“An appropriate use, ah yes,” Ollie said, and counted out seven singles and handed them to her. “I hope you haven’t handled it too much, we’ll be looking for fingerprints.”
“Oh dear,” she said again.
“Yes, dear,” Ollie said, and smiled cordially. “The case, please.”
The Rêve du Jour Underwear Factory was a squat brick structure nestled among a line of similar but taller buildings on Riverview Place, at the edge of the River Dowd. I know you are familiar with many languages, Commish, this being a rainbow coalition city of many desperate or even disparate tongues. But in case you do not know what “Rêve du Jour” becomes when it is translated from the original Spanish, which runs rampant in this city, then let me give you a bit of assistance.
“Rêve du Jour” means “River of Joy.”
It was my guess, as I approached the building, that perhaps the owner or owners had derived the name from the proximate closeness of the factory to the river, but that was mere speculation, and detectives are not paid to speculate. Besides, a person—even a Spanish person—would never in a million years consider the Dowd a “river of joy,” since it was more polluted than an Irishman on St. Patty’s Day—no offense, Commish, just a little metaphor there, or perhaps a simile.
A girl with short black curly hair and dark brown eyes was sitting behind the reception desk. She was not wearing a bra, which was surprising to me since this was an underwear factory. I must tell you that it is very difficult for a girl to find a proper bra these days, which is perhaps why the young lady behind the desk wasn’t wearing one. The trick is to find something that enhances and supports simultaneously, but that also makes it look like you’re not wearing a bra. At the same time, it can’t be too revealing. That is to say, it shouldn’t show your nipples and all through your outer garments. That may sound like mere girl talk, but believe me, I spend half my off-duty time searching for the right bra to enclose and enfold my not inconsiderate breasts. What I’m saying is that either the girl behind the desk was not wearing a bra, or else she was wearing a very good bra that made it look as if she wasn’t wearing one.
I introduced myself to her and asked if I might speak to the owner of the establishment, please.
“Mais oui, madame,” she said, in what I took to
be French, which surprised me, when one considered the Spanish origins of the company name. “Will you ’ave a seat, if you please?”
You have to understand that the reception room of RUF was decorated with mannequins of women wearing bras and panties and garter belts and slips and camisoles and merry widows in reds and blacks and whites and blues and pinks and even purples. I took a seat on a sofa behind which were life-sized photographs on the wall of young women modeling many of the items the mannequins around the room were actually wearing. In effect, then, I was surrounded by a sea of female pulchritude and vertiginous femininity, so to speak, partially though scantily dressed or undressed, that would have turned the heads of many of my colleagues up the squadroom. There are times I am grateful for my gender and not easily distracted, believe me.
I was here to learn why Mr. Mercer Grant, not his real name, had brought up the little matter of the RUF, which I was supposed to believe represented an African group that called itself the Revolutionary United Front, but which—I had learned through the kind auspices of one Mortimer “Needle” Loop—actually stood for a Spanish lingerie company called the Rêvedu Jour Underwear Factory. I was here to learn whether or not the people who owned this place knew anything at all about the disappearance and possible murder of one Marie Grant, not her real name, or her relationship with her husband’s cousin, whose real name was also not Ambrose Fields.
In short, I felt I was hot on the scent of getting to the bottom of all this—no pun intended, Commish, in that the lady in the photograph behind me was bending over from the waist in a thong bikini that exposed her buttocks in a way that might have seemed enticing to many males.
I could have sworn the receptionist said, “Mercer will see you now, madame.”
But no, what she’d actually said was “Monsieur will see you now, madame.”
She indicated a red door set between a photograph of a very tall leggy blonde wearing a white camisole and white lace panties and a very tall leggy brunette wearing a black bra and black lace panties. I opened the door and entered a hallway hung with similar photographs of similar models wearing lingerie and scarce else, and walked to another red door at the end of the corridor. I knocked on the door.
