Hark! (25 page)

Then…

He didn't know how or why it happened, but all at once money seemed to be in scarce supply, to put it mildly. Maybe it was the kids growing up all of a sudden. April suddenly becoming a young lady before his very eyes, Mark growing at least two inches overnight, needing cell phones and laptops and zip sneakers and makeup kits and whatever else all the other kids in their class had. Almost thirteen years old. Seemed like yesterday the twins were born. Almost thirteen already, he could just imagine what it would be like when they were sixteen or seventeen, no money put aside yet for college, how'd he ever manage to get himself into such a tight financial situation?

Well, the wedding.

The wedd-
ings.

Two
of them.

He couldn't imagine what had possessed him to offer paying for them. Well, you couldn't let your mother pay for her own wedding, could you? Your father dead? You couldn't say, Gee, Mom, sorry, this one's on you, could you? You made your bed, Mom, now lie in it. What kind of son would that be? And if you offered to pay for
hers
, then you had to offer to pay for your sister's as well, didn't you? I mean, they were getting married
together
, it was going to be a double ceremony, two brides, two grooms, I do, I do, I do, I do. So if you were going to be a good son and pay for
one
of the weddings, then you had to be a good brother, too, didn't you, and pay for the
other
one as well? Why, of course! So Mr. Magnanimous, Mr. Generosity, Mr. Deep Pockets offered to pay for both. Gee, thanks, son. Thanks, bro.

Meanwhile, bro is broke. Sonny Boy, too.

Because Big-Hearted Bro, Loving Son and Benefactor, turned down Mr. Luigi Fontero's
subsequent
offer to pay for at least part of the double-bash. Luigi Fontero, the Furniture Maker of Milan, Future Husband of the Widow Carella, I will vomit!

I will vomit because I
still
don't understand how my mother could be marrying this big…
wop
, yes, excuse me…or how my sister could be marrying this…
inept
, yes…prosecutor who allowed Pop's murderer to…

Don't get me started.

Please.

I am broke.

I am awake at three in the morning.

And the double wedding will take place this Saturday at noon.

Sweet dreams, Big Shot.

 

H
E WAS ASLEEP BESIDE
her, snoring like a bull, and she still hadn't found out what Adam needed to know. Yes, Jeremy Higel was a bodyguard. Adam already knew that, though not his name. And yes, he was protecting a violinist whose name was Konstantinos Sallas. Adam already knew that, too, name and all.

But the devil was in the details.

And details were what she needed.

What she figured she'd do was wake him up by playing with his dick—a very small one for such a large, hairy man—and then Deep Throat him, which would be a piece of cake, so to speak, in his case. Then, when he was close to imminent ejaculation, you should pardon the expression, she would start asking him questions which, if he didn't answer them, she'd leave him hanging here till next month at this time.

How does that sound, Jere?

Sounds good to me, she thought, and finger-walked the forefinger and middle finger of her right hand down his hairy chest and across his hairy belly and down into the wild bushiness of his crotch to discover at last, hidden there in the weedy black forest of his pubic hair, a weapon of mass destruction so formidable that it would have shocked and awed Bush, Blair, Cheney, Rumsfeld, and indeed the entire civilized world—all two and a half inches of it.

Wake up, Woolly Bear, she thought.

We've got some serious pillow-talking to do.

 

T
HE FIRST NOTE
was delivered at eight-thirty that Wednesday morning.

Another junkie, ho-hum.

When they unfolded the single sheet of paper inside the envelope, the message fairly leaped off the page:

87

“Gee, looka that,” Genero said.

“That's us,” Parker deduced.

 

T
HE SECOND NOTE
came at 9:30 that morning.

They didn't realize it as yet, but there would be a veritable parade of junkies today, one every hour or so. They questioned each new shabby messenger, hoping to pick up a fresh trail for Carmela Sammarone, but she seemed to be recruiting her people from all over town, wherever addicts congregated, which was virtually everywhere.

The second note read:

78

“That's us backwards,” Parker calculated.

He felt he was getting good at this.

“Backwards again,” Meyer said.

Carella searched for yesterday's notes, the ones that told them everything was going to be backwards from now on. He hadn't slept much the night before, and he had trouble finding them. In fact, he almost knocked over his second cup of coffee.

“Here we go,” he said at last, and displayed the two notes.

The first one read:

The second one read:

“You know,” Willis said, “there are many different meanings to the word
backward.
It doesn't necessarily have to mean ‘in reverse.' ”

“It specifically says ‘spell him
backward
,' ” Brown said.

“Yes, but that could mean
cast
a spell on him that would make him bashful or hesitant or shy. That's another meaning of
backward.
”

“
He's
certainly not bashful or hesitant,” Hawes said.

“Or shy, either,” Genero agreed.

“You think he might get her to hypnotize someone?” Brown asked.

“Who?”

“The Sammarone woman. Carmela. Get her to cast a spell, you know?”

“Is she a hypnotist? Do we know that?”

“It's just, Hal said it could mean casting a spell.”

“It
also
means ‘late in developing,' ” Willis said. “Backward. You say someone's backward, you mean he's retarded.”

“Retarded ain't politically correct no more,” Parker said.

“
Slow
then,” Willis said. “Backward.”

“Maybe he's telling us
we're
slow,” Meyer suggested.

“Maybe we
are
slow,” Carella said, and looked at the most recent note again.

Now they had
78.

First
87
and now
78.

Which was indeed
87
spelled backwards, or even
backward
, as the “she” in yesterday's second note would have it.

“Do
backward
and
backwards
mean the same thing?” Genero asked. “Cause I always said
backwards.
Is that wrong?”

“
Backwards
is the
plural
of
backward
, Parker explained.

“Is something going to happen in the Seven-Eight?” Eileen asked.

“Where
is
the Seven-Eight, anyway?” Hawes asked.

Meyer was already looking through his list of the city's precincts. It seemed there was a Seventy-eighth Precinct across the river, in Calm's Point.

“ ‘Him' spelled backwards is ‘mih,' ” Genero observed. “ ‘She would spell
him
backward.' ”

“In Vietnamese, ‘mih' means ‘son of the crouching tiger,' ” Parker said.

They all looked at him.

“Just kidding,” he said.

But nobody was laughing.

 

Y
OU SEE A GIRL
walking up the avenue at ten o'clock in the morning, wearing a slinky black silk dress and high-heeled black sandals with rhinestone clips, you know she's either an heiress or a hooker. And unless you're from Elk Horn, North Dakota, you know she didn't spend the night sleeping.

The Deaf Man was still asleep when Melissa let herself into the apartment. She went into the kitchen, poured herself some juice from the fridge, got a pot of coffee going, and then slipped out of her shoes and sat there at the kitchen table, waiting for the coffee to perk, looking out at the skyline, elbow on the table, chin resting on the heel of her right hand.

The aroma of the brewing coffee brought back memories of a childhood she'd almost forgotten. How'd I get here all these years later? she wondered. Whatever happened to little Carmela Sammarone? Where'd you go, Mela? she wondered. Mel? Where are you now, honey? Only place the name exists is on my passport, that one time Grandpa took me to Italy with him, to his hometown there, a walled city, she couldn't even remember the name of it anymore. Sort of sighing, she got up to pour herself the coffee.

“How'd it go?” he asked.

Startled, she turned from the stove.

He was wearing the black cashmere robe she'd bought him that made his eyes look very blue. Broad shoulders, narrow waist, belt around it. Blond hair tousled, made him look somewhat boyish.

“Good,” she said. “Want some coffee?”

“Yes, please,” he said. “Learn anything?”

“Oh, oodles,” she said, and poured him a cup, carried it to the table, went to the fridge for milk, the cabinet for sugar. Sitting there at the table, in the sunlight streaming through the window, they could have been a cozy married couple having breakfast. She wondered what it was like to be a married couple.

“So tell me,” he said.

“His name is Jeremy Higel, he's not Greek.”

“He looked Greek. The beard, maybe. Or the association with Sallas.”

“Are Greeks supposed to have beards?”

“Anyway…” he prompted.

“Anyway, he's not Greek. But he
is
Sallas' bodyguard.”

“
That
I know.”

“Who
is
a violin player.”

“Correct.”

“And the concert
will
take place at three o'clock this Saturday, you were right about that, too.”

“So far, so good,” he said.

“Oh, it gets much better.”

“Tell me,” he said, and smiled.

“They'll be picked up at the hotel at two o'clock. Sallas and his bodyguard.”

“Why so early? The concert doesn't start till three.”

“In case there's traffic. They're supposed to be at Clarendon by two-thirty.”

“Who's picking them up?”

“A limo.”

“Which company?”

“Regal.”

“Good. You got that, huh?”

“Regal Limousine, yes. The car will be a luxury sedan, is what they call it.”

“That's very good, Melissa.”

“I think so.”

“Is he armed…Jeremy, is it?”

“Jeremy, yes. Jeremy Higel.”

“Is he armed?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of weapon?”

“A Smith & Wesson 1911.”

“I didn't know you were that familiar with guns.”

“I'm not. He gave me a guided tour. It's a forty-five caliber automatic, five-inch barrel length. Magazine holds eight rounds, plus one in the firing chamber. Satin stainless finish with a Hogue rubber grip. Very proud of that gun, he is. Nice-looking weapon, in fact.
Big
weapon, too. Which is more than I can say for the one in his pants.”

“Did he give you a guided tour of that one as well?”

“A walking tour, let us say. Nothing to brag about, believe me.”

“Par for the course, from what I gather.”