Fiddlers (15 page)

It occurred to both detectives, almost simultaneously, that she did not yet know Christine Langston was dead. Brown glanced at Kling, found him turning to him at the same moment. So who would tell her? They both suddenly wished they hadn�t driven all the way out here today.

�Miss Hardigan,� Brown said, �there�s something you should know.�

His voice, his eyes transmitted the message before he said the words.

�Has something happened to her?� Susan asked at once. �Is that why you�re here?�

�Ma�am,� Brown said, �she was murdered.�

�I dreamt it,� she said. �The other night. I dreamt someone had stabbed her.�

Brown told her what had actually happened. He told her they�d been talking to associates of hers, students she�d taught, trying to get a handle on the case. Susan listened intently. He didn�t know quite how he should broach the matter of Christine Langston�s� sexuality? This was an elderly woman sitting here in a wheelchair, a spinster woman who reminded him of his aunt Hattie in North Carolina, albeit white. How did you ask her if she knew her close friend had once phoned in a false rape charge back then when you and I were young, Maggie?

�Did you know of any trouble she�d reported to the police?� Kling said, gingerly picking up the ball.

�What sort of trouble?� Susan asked.

�Curried favors from a cab driver,� Kling sort of mumbled.

Curried, Brown thought. Well, an Indian cab driver.

�A cab driver curried favors from her?�

�No,� Kling said, and cleared his throat. �Miss Langston curried favors from him.�

�Nonsense,� Susan snapped. �What kind of favors?�

Kling cleared his throat again.

�Sexual favors,� he said.

Brown wished he was dead.

�Are you talking about that trick she played one time?� Susan said. �Is that what you�re referring to?�

�What trick would that be, ma�arn?�

�Back at Harding? The young man who needed an A?�

�Tell us about it,� Brown said.

�But he wasn�t a cab driver. He was a student.�

Plainly about to enjoy this, almost rubbing her hands together in anticipation, Susan shifted in her wheelchair, leaned forward as if to share a delicious secret, lowered her voice, and said, �This boy desperately needed an A in the course Christine was teaching. Basic Elements of Composition, whatever it was. This was high school, he was a graduating senior, eighteen years old. But he needed an A from her to pull up his average from a C to a B. He�d applied to a college, some dinky little school in Vermont, and acceptance was contingent on his maintaining a B average.�

Susan grinned. Her teeth were bad, Brown noticed. She suddenly didn�t remind him of Aunt Hattie at all.

�Well� this is really rich, I must tell you. As a joke, Christine told the boy�� She suddenly winked at the detectives. �I don�t know if either of you are old enough to hear this.�

�Try us,� Brown said.

�She told him if he�d go to bed with her, she�d give him an A. Joking, of course.�

�Of course,� Brown said.

�But he took her up on it!�

�Who wouldn�t?� Brown said.

�Can you imagine! She�s joking with the boy, and he thinks she�s truly propositioning him?�

�So she explained that she was just kidding, right?�

�Well, no,� Susan said, chuckling. �He was eighteen, she was twenty-three, this was consensual. Nothing wrong with that.�

�Nothing at all,� Kling said. �What was this boy�s name, would you remember?�

�She never said. Told me the story one night while we were having dinner together.�

�You�re saying she went to bed with him,� Brown said.

�Isn�t that delicious?� Susan said, and actually clapped her hands. She leaned closer, conspiratorially. Her voice lowered to a whisper. �But that wasn�t the end of it.�

Neither of them dared ask what the end of it was.

�She gave him a C, anyway!� Susan said gleefully.

The detectives said nothing for a moment.

�Was he accepted at that college in Vermont?� Brown asked at last.

�No! He got drafted into the Army!�

Brown nodded.

�Isn�t that the supreme irony!� Susan said.

* * * *

�You know something,� Brown said in the car on the way back to the city. �There are people who are ugly when they�re young, and they�re still ugly when they�re old. Nothing changes there. Ugly is ugly.�

They were caught in inexplicable post-rush-hour traffic. Brown was driving. The car windows were open. An incessant buzz seemed to hang over everything.

�I�ll tell you something else,� he said. �If you�re getting a picture here of a mean old lady, then ten to one she was a mean young lady, too. And probably a mean little brat. Nothing changes. Mean is mean. Susan Hardigan enjoyed telling that damn story. They must have been two prize bitches back then, her and her good friend Christine. Both of them ugly, both of them mean.�

�Yep,� Kling said.

They drove in silence for some time, pondering the vast mysteries of life.

�Got time for a drink?� Kling asked. �Caroline�s waiting,� Brown said.

* * * *

When Carella got home that night, he explained that the reason he was late was there�d been another murder, and the Loot had them running all around town again.

�In the Eight-Eight this time, an old priest, same Glock,� he told Teddy. �Ollie Weeks caught it, lucky us.�

How many does this make? Teddy signed.

�Four.�

Is it some nutcase shooting people at random?

The word �nutcase� was difficult to sign.

At first, Carella read it as �Nazi.�

�Oh, nutcase,� he said, after she�d repeated it three times. �Maybe.�

But he didn�t think so.

* * * *

First thing Kling thought was, She�s a hooker.

Sliding onto the stool next to his, She�s a hooker. Or was that racial profiling? Or had he been drinking too much? Or did he just miss Sharyn too much? When you�re in love, the whole world�s black. Sharyn�s words. The girl smiled at him. Very black girl, very white smile. Short skirt, crossed her legs. Smooth black legs, bare, shiny. He almost put his hand on her knee. Reflexive action. Been with Sharyn too long a time now. Once you taste black, there�s no going back. Sharyn�s words, too.

�Dirty martini,� the girl told the bartender.

�What�s that?� Kling asked. �A dirty martini.�

The girl turned to him. �You don�t know whut a dirty martini is?� she said, and then, to the bartender, �He aon�t know whut a dirty martini is, Louis.�

�Tell him what it is, Sade,� the bartender said.

Sadie Harris,� the girl said, and held out her hand. Kling took it.

�Bert Kling,� he said.

�Nice�t�meet you, Bert. Way I make a dirty martini,� she said, and again to the bartender, �Correct me if I�m wrong, Louis.�

�You�re the one taught me how to make �em,� Louis said, grinning.

�You take two shots of gin,� Sadie said, �and you add three teaspoons of olive juice. No vermouth. Just the olive juice. Then you either shake it or stir it

�I prefer stirring it,� Louis said, actually working on the drink now.

�� over ice,� Sadie said, �and you pour it in an up glass, and add an olive. I like a jalapefio olive in mine, as Louis well knows. Thank you, Louis,� she said, and accepted the stemmed glass. �You want a little taste of this, Bert?� she asked. �Li�l sip of this?�

�Why not?� he said.

She held the glass for him, brought it to his mouth. He sipped.

�Nice,� he said.

�Yummy,� she said, and brought the glass to her own mouth. Thick lips, berry ripe with lipstick. Black hair in corn rows. Earrings dangling. Legs crossed, skirt high on her thighs, one foot jiggling a strappy sandal, half on, half off. Low-cut silk blouse unbuttoned three buttons down. No bra. Silk puckered. Nipple on one breast almost showing. Not quite.

�So what do you do, Bert?� she asked.

�I�m a cop,� he said.

�Oh dear,� Sadie said.

�How about you?�

�Be funny if I was a hooker, wouldn�t it?� she said, and winked at Louis.

�What are you?� Kling asked.

�A librarian.�

�I�ll bet.�

�I�ll bet you�re a cop, too.�

�You�d win.�

�What are you, Narcotics?�

�Nope.�

�Street Crime?�

�Nope.�

�Vice?�

�Nope.�

�Cause if you was Vice, and I was a hooker, I�d have to be real careful here, you know whut I�m saying?�

�I guess you�d have to be careful, yes.�

�Good thing I�m just a librarian.�

�Uh-huh.�

�And you�re just a plain old cop.�

�Just a plain old Detective/Third Grade.�

�Whut precinct?�

�The Eight-Seven.�

�You think he�s really a cop, Louis?�

�Man says he�s a cop, I got no reason to doubt his word.�

�Let me see your badge,� Sadie said.

Kling reached for his wallet, opened it to where his shield was pinned to the leather.

�Gee,� Sadie said.

�Told you,� Kling said, and closed the wallet and put it back in his pocket.

�Wanna see my library card?� Sadie asked.

�No, I believe you.�

�So what do you think the chances are of a white blond cop meeting a gorgeous black librarian in a bar on the edge of the universe?�

�Pretty slim, I�d say.�

�You agree, though, huh?�

Kling looked at her, puzzled.

�That I�m gorgeous,� Sadie said.

�It crossed my mind, yes.�

�So if I�m not a hooker, why am I sitting here flashing my stuff at you? What kind of librarian would behave like such a brazen hussy?�

�A brazen hussy, huh?� Kling said, and smiled.

�A brazen hussy, is exactly right. Jiggling her foot, letting her boobs spill all over the bar. Lord a�mercy, my daddy would throw a fit.�

�I�ll bet.�

�Let me have another one of these li�l mothas, Louis.�

He poured her another drink.

Sadie lifted the stemmed glass.

�Would you like another li�l taste of this, Bert?� she asked. �I�m assuming you�re off duty, seeing as how it�s a Friday night, and you�re sitting here drinking and all. Another li�l sip, Bert? Another sweet li�l taste?�

She lifted the glass to his mouth again, tilted it.

He sipped.

�Yummy, ain�t it?� she said, and raised one eyebrow like a movie star. �But getting back, Bert, if I was a hooker, I would have to tell you how much I charge and all that, you know whut I�m saying? And even then, before you could make a vice bust, I�d have to be naked and accepting actual cash, whatever it is these girls charge, a hundred for a blowjob, two hundred for the missionary, five for the whole night, whatever, around the world understood. Then again, you�re off duty, Bert, isn�t that right? My question is: When is an off-duty cop not a cop? And how would he like to make love to a gorgeous black librarian?�

Kling looked at her.

Louis was a discreet ten feet down the bar.

�Li�l taste, Bert?� Sadie said.

�I think��

She took his hand, placed it on her thigh.

Jiggling her foot.

Eyebrow raised.

He rose abruptly and went to the phone booth.

* * * *

Sharyn answered on the third ring.

�Don�t hang up,� he said. �Please.�

�I was in the shower,� she said. �I�m soaking wet.�

�Get a towel. I�ll call you back.�

�I have a towel.�

�Sharyn, I love you to death.�

Silence.

�Sharyn, let me come there. Please.�

�No,� she said, and hung up.

* * * *

Sadie was still sitting at the bar. She ignored him when he sat down beside her. Then she took a long swallow of the martini, draining the glass, and placed it delicately on the bar top, and turned to him, her knees touching his.

�Mama give you permission?� she asked.

* * * *

The old lady was walking her dog at almost eleven thirty P.M., not a particularly wise thing to do in this part of the city, but she did it every night at this time, and everyone in the neighborhood knew her, black or white, and she�d never had any trouble so far. When she heard the voice behind her, she was startled, but not frightened.

�Helen?�

She turned.

The dog didn�t even growl, just stared into the darkness with her.

�Do I know you?� she asked.

�You should,� he said, �it�s Carlie,� and shot her twice in the face.

As the dog turned to run, he shot her, too.

* * * *

7.

HE THOUGHT AT first the girl in bed with him was Sharyn. Opening his eyes, first thing that registered was black. Then he realized her scent was different, her hairstyle was different, her face was different, this girl was not Sharyn Cooke. Oh, Jesus, he thought, and felt immediate guilt.

Almost ashamed to look at her.

But kept looking at her.

Black hair in corn rows. Ripe lips, free of lipstick now. Fast asleep, breathing lightly. Looked like a shiny angel. Earrings on the night table beside her. Clothes draped on a chair across the room. The clock on his side of the bed read 6:15 A.M. He was due in the squadroom at 7:45.

Was she a hooker?

In the bar last night� hadn�t there been some talk about money?

He couldn�t even remember which bar it was.

He kept looking at her.

She was quite beautiful.

She couldn�t be a hooker, could she?

Her name was�

Sally?

Sophie?

Whatever her name was, whatever her occupation, she should not be here in his bed this morning. Was someone in Sharyn�s bed this morning?

As if the bed were suddenly on fire, he got out of it fast, and virtually ran across the room to the bathroom. He closed and locked the door. He looked at himself in the mirror.

Maybe you didn�t do anything but sleep together, he told himself.

Buy that one, and I have a good bridge I can sell you.

He kept looking at himself in the mirror. Then he got into the shower, and ran it very hot, and kept thinking over and again, What have I done, what have I done, what have I done?

* * * *

She was sitting up in bed when he came back into the room, a towel around his waist.