Calypso (24 page)

    "We're up here looking for a pimp named Joey La Paz," Carella said. "Do you know him?"

    "No, it don't ring a bell?" Ollie said. He shook his head. "No."

    "Joey Peace?"

    "No."

    "How about Eugene Corrosco?"

    "Oh, sure, I know Gene, but he ain't a pimp. Gene owns a jewelry store on Cabot. Just between you, me, and the lamppost, Gene does a little bit of fencing on the side, you dig? I'm waitin to bust his spic ass the minute I hear he's also settin up burglaries, the way some of these guys do, you know? Sell you a diamond tiara for your wife, put a burglar on it, have him break in and steal the thing back, fence it next week across the river someplace. Very neat," Ollie said. "So far. Gene's just a small-time fence, hardly worth a bust. I'm layin in the bushes so I can send him away for a long one. What's
your
beef with him?"

    "No beef. We're trying to find La Paz. They're cousins."

    "This on the hooker got killed in Midtown South?"

    "Yes," Carella said.

    "Figures. You're lookin for a pimp, got to be a hooker involved, right?" he said, and tapped his temple with his forefinger, and smiled at Meyer, and said,
"Tochis,
Meyer."

    Meyer did not smile back. Meyer did not like Ollie. Meyer did not know
anyone
who liked Ollie. Ollie was not only fat, which in the United States of America automatically made him a villain, he was also bigoted. And he smelled. His breath smelled. His body smelled. He was a vast uncharted garbage dump. He was also a good cop. By certain standards.

    "So Gene's store is right around the comer," Ollie said. "What's the problem?"

    "Away on vacation it seems," Carella said.

    "Vacation, bullshit," Ollie said. "Come on, let's go find that little asshole."

    

    

    The Puerto Rican section of Diamondback had been named by its inhabitants, who-perhaps in reaction to a city that seemed determined to grind them into the dust-had lost in the christening process the fine sense of humor that had caused them to name the biggest slum in Puerto Rico "La Perla." Following the same satiric tack, they might have named their Stateside ghetto "El Paradiso." Instead, they chose to call a spade a spade. The place was El Infierno, and the tenement smells here were Hispanic in origin, which meant that mixed in with the headier nondenominational stinks of cohabitation and waste were the more exotic aromas of
sancochado, ajiaco de papas, frijoles negros, arroz con salchicha,
and
cabrito criollo.

    "Makes you hungry just walkin inside one of these fuckin buildings," Ollie said. "There's a Spanish joint around the corner, you guys want to get a bite to eat later. The prices are very reasonable, if you take my meaning, yes indeed, oh, yes," he said, winking and falling into his world-famous W. C. Fields imitation. "What this is here," he said, returning to his normal speaking voice, which was pitched somewhere between a grunt and a growl, a sort of whiskey-seared rumble that came up from his huge barrel chest and rattled across the gravel pit of his throat to emerge from his thick lips with a stench of brimstone and bile accompanying it-Meyer wondered when Ollie had last brushed his teeth. Guy Fawkes Day? Which was not celebrated in the United States of America. "What this is here," Ollie said, "is the place where Gene Corrosco keeps the shit he fences, yes indeed, m'friends, doesn't know ole Ollie knows about it, he's gonna be in for some surprise, the little spic asshole. It's on the third floor here, get ready with the heat, m'friends, in case Corrosco decides his little stash is worth protecting."

    They were on the third floor already, following Ollie down the corridor toward the two apartments at the end of it. "It's 3A, the one on the right," Ollie said. "Let me give a listen first, huh?" He put his ear to the door as soon as they were outside the apartment, listening the way any good cop would listen before knocking on a door or kicking it in. His pistol was in his right hand, his left ear was to the door, he was breathing heavily after the climb to the third floor and his breath stank to high heaven. "Two of them, from what I can tell," he whispered. "I'll bust the door down, you fan out behind me."

    "Ollie," Carella said, "we haven't got a warrant, I think-"

    "Fuck the warrant," Ollie said, "this is Diamondback." He moved away from the door, across the corridor, and then sprinted toward it with all the agility of a dainty hippo, hitting the lock with his shoulder instead of going for a kick at it; Meyer guessed Ollie would have had trouble bringing up his knee. The door splintered away from the jamb, nuts and bolts flying as Ollie followed it into the room, left shoulder still low after hitting the lock, swinging around now to bring his right hand, the gun hand, into position. Carella and Meyer were just behind him.

    The room resembled nothing so much as a miniature warehouse. Ranged across the floor, virtually wall to wall, were a wide variety of brand-name television sets, radios, toasters, cameras, projectors, typewriters, microwave ovens, hair dryers, bicycles, skis, stereo turntables, amplifiers, tuners and speakers, and a partridge in a pear tree. Along one of the walls was a pipe coat rack upon which was hanging an assortment of coats fashioned of mink, sable, red fox, raccoon, lynx, opossum, silver fox, ocelot, Persian lamb, and four colly birds. Two men were standing next to a long table upon which was arrayed a glitter of bracelets, necklaces, brooches, tiaras, watches, pendants, earrings, silver flatware, silver goblets, silver pitchers, silver serving trays, and five golden rings. Into the room, like twelve lords aleaping, came graceful Fat Ollie followed by fumbling Steve Carella, who was worried about illegal entry, and cautious Meyer Meyer, who was afraid his hat would fall off, and he'd trip on it in front of these two hoods who were running a bargain basement up here in Diamondback.

    "Well, well," Ollie said, "ain't this interesting! Just freeze it, Gene. My friends are very trigger happy."

    Eugene Corrosco had turned away from the table the moment the door shattered inward. He was a short man with a pockmarked complexion and a thick black Zapata mustache. He was almost as bald as Meyer, but not quite. His friend was a blond white man. The blond looked first at the cops and then at Corrosco; his eyes seemed to be accusing Corrosco of having withheld vital information, like for example the possibility that cops might come breaking in here. He seemed about to burst into tears.

    "Hello, Detective Weeks," Corrosco said. He had a very high voice, and he was grinning sheepishly, as if he'd just been caught with a girl on the roof rather than a roomful of stolen goods.

    "Little tag sale. Gene?" Ollie said.

    "No, no, just some stuff here," Corrosco said.

    "Oh, yes," Ollie said in his W. C. Fields voice,
"lotsa
stuff here, yes indeed."

    "Yeah," Corrosco said, still grinning.

    "You and your pal running a little hot-goods drop. Gene?" Ollie asked.

    "No, no," Corrosco said. "Just some stuff here, that's all."

    
"Whose
stuff. Gene?"

    "My mother's," Corrosco said.

    "Your mother's?" Ollie said, genuinely surprised. "Well, well. Your mother's."

    "Yeah," Corrosco said. "She keeps it in storage here."

    "Likes television, your mother," Ollie said.

    "Yeah, she does."

    "Fourteen sets, I count."

    "Yeah, fourteen," Corrosco said. "She had fourteen rooms."

    "Watched television in all the rooms, huh?"

    "Yeah, all the rooms," Corrosco said.

    "The toilet, too?"

    "Huh?"

    "Did she watch television in the toilet?"

    "No, not the toilet," Corrosco said.

    "What'd she do in the toilet?" Ollie asked. "Did she take pictures in the toilet?"

    "Huh?"

    "Lots of cameras here. Did your mother take pictures in the toilet?"

    "Oh, yeah, in the toilet," Corrosco said, grinning.

    "Corrosco," Ollie said, "I am going to bust you for receiving stolen goods."

    "Gee, Detective Weeks," Corrosco said.

    "Unless…"

    "How much?" Corrosco said at once.

    "Did you hear
that?"
Ollie said, turning with a shocked expression to where Carella and Meyer stood just inside the open door, their pistols in their hands. "Did you
hear
what this man just
said?"

    "I didn't say nothin," Corrosco said.

    "Me neither," the blond said.

    "I certainly hope you weren't attempting a bribe," Ollie said.

    "No, no," Corrosco said at once. "No, sir. Not me."

    "Me neither," the blond said, shaking his head.

    "I'll tell you what," Ollie said.

    "What?" Corrosco said at once.

    "There's somebody we're looking for."

    "Who?" Corrosco said, again at once.

    "Man name Joey La Paz."

    "Never heard of him," Corrosco said.

    "You never heard of your own cousin?"

    "He's my cousin?" Corrosco said. "No, he can't be my cousin. If I never heard of him, how could he be my cousin?"

    "Gene," Ollie said, "I'm sorry to have to do this to you because criminal possession of stolen property can be either a Class-A misdemeanor, or a Class-E or Class-D felony, depending on the value of the property. That means you can gross either a year, four years, or seven years in jail, depending. That's a lot of time, Gene. But what can I tell you? The law is the law and I wouldn't be doin my duty if I allowed this willful transgression-"

    "La Paz, did you say?"

    "Joey La Paz," Ollie said, nodding.

    "Oh, yeah. I thought you said Lopez."

    "No, La Paz."

    "Yeah, that's right. Sure."

    "Sure what?"

    "Sure, he's my cousin."

    "Where is he, Gene?"

    "How should I know?" Corrosco said. "Do you know where
your
cousin is?"

    "No, but then again I ain't the one who's got cop trouble in a roomful of stolen goods." Ollie took a step closer to Corrosco. Corrosco backed away against the table. Ollie wrapped his fist into Corrosco's shirt, put his face very close to Corros-co's, and then, in a hissing little whisper, said, "Listen to me, spic. I want your cousin. If I don't get your cousin, I get you. If you're lucky, you'll get a spic judge who'll let you off easy. Take your choice, Gene. You or your cousin."

    "What do you want him for?" Corrosco asked.

    "You ain't reading me, are you?" Ollie said, and sighed, and let go of his shirt. "Okay," he said, "get your hat. You, too, Blondie."

    "I just came by to say hello," the blond man said.

    "You can say hello to the judge."

    "I mean it. Tell him, Gene. Tell him I just came by to say hello."

    "Shut up," Corrosco said. "My cousin's in an apartment on St. Sab's and Booker."

    "What's the address?" Ollie said, taking out his pad.

    "Six twenty-nine St. Sab."

    "Name in the mailbox?"

    "Amy Wyatt."

    "Who's that? One of his hookers?"

    "No, her mother."

    
"Whose
mother?"

    "Sarah Wyatt's."

    "Girl in his stable?"

    "Yeah, but recent."

    "Okay, Gene, thanks a lot. Now get your hat."

    "Get my
hat?"
Corrosco said. "What
for?
You told me-"

    "That was before you got cute with me. Get your fuckin
hat!"

    "That ain't fair," Corrosco said, pouting.

    "Who says it has to be?" Ollie asked.

    

    

    La Paz came up off the bed with a pistol in his hand, swinging it at the door the moment the lock imploded into the room. He was wearing only dark narrow trousers, no shirt, no shoes or socks. His skin was a creamy tan, and he kept himself in good shape, muscles rippling across his chest and up the length of his arm as he leveled the pistol at Ollie's broad chest.

    "Just pull the trigger, shithead," Ollie said.

    La Paz hesitated.

    "Go on, pull it," Ollie said. "My two friends here'll shoot you fulla holes and stuff you down the toilet like the piece of shit you are. Pull the fuckin trigger, go
on!"

    Carella waited with bated breath, half hoping La Paz would respond positively to Ollie's dare. Instead, he lowered the gun.

    "Good boy," Ollie said. "Throw it on the floor."

    La Paz threw it on the floor.

    "Up. On your feet. Grab paint," Ollie said. He shoved La Paz against the wall, and then tossed him, between the legs and down the sides of his trousers. "Okay," he said, "turn around. Who else is in this shithole?"

    "Nobody," La Paz said.

    "Where's Amy Wyatt?"

    "She works. She ain't here."

    "All alone, huh?"

    "Yeah."

    "I hope you don't fall down and hurt yourself or nothing," Ollie said. "Be nobody here but us to call an ambulance, huh? These gentlemen here want to ask you some questions. I hope you cooperate with them, Joey, cause I don't like trouble in my precinct, okay?"

    "How'd you get to me?"

    "We got ways, m'boy," Ollie said in his W. C. Fields voice. He picked up the pistol, looked at it, and then said to Carella, "You ain't chasin a.32 Colt, are you?"

    "No," Carella said.

    "Too bad," Ollie said, and tucked the pistol into his waistband. He turned back to La Paz. "Answer the man's questions," he said.