"Yesterday morning," Logan corrected, since he himself had already gone to bed and awakened, had been awakened, more accurately.
"Did he give you his name?" Priscilla asked.
"You asked me that yesterday morning," Logan said. "No, he didn't give me his name."
"What did he say exactly?"
"He said to be sure to have the envelope was delivered to your suite."
"He said suite?"
"Yes."
"Not room?"
"He specifically said suite."
"So he knows I have a suite there," Priscilla said to Georgie. Georgie nodded wisely and sipped at his Scotch. His job here was to make sure she never found this tall blond guy, whoever he was, because then he would tell her the envelope was very fat when he'd left it in the locker. Then it would become a matter of believing some tall blond stranger or two Italian guys who looked like they just got off the boat from Napoli, albeit in Armani threads. In Georgie's experience, blond broads always trusted blond men over swarthy wops. So next thing you knew, she'd be asking them how come the envelope was now so skinny, and before you could say Giuseppe Umberto Mangiacavallo, she'd actually be accusing them of having stolen the fuckin ninety-five K all because they were Italian.. Boy. "Tell me what he looked like," Priscilla said. "Tall blond man."
"How tall?"
"Six-two."
"Would you say a blond blond or a dirty blond?"
"More like a dirty blond."
"Like Robert Redford?"
"Not as blond. Redford tints, I'll bet."
"But a dirty blond, right?"
"Muddy, I'd say. Actually, he looked like "Robert Redford delivered the envelope?" I said, astonished.
"No, no. But he resembled Redford. Except for accent."
"What accent?"
"I told you. Some kind of heavy accent."
"Russian?"
"I really couldn't say. There are so many accents in this city."
"What was he wearing?"
"A dark blue overcoat."
"Hat?"
"No hat."
"A scarf?."
"Yes. A red muffler."
Gloves?
"What color shoes?"
"I couldn't see them from behind the desk."
"Beard? Mustache?"
"Clean-shaven."
Priscilla didn't know that the cops had virtually these same questions on the night of grandmother's murder. Nor did she realize, of that the man who lived down the hall from her given them this exact description.
"Anything else you remember about him?"
Sounding more and more like a cop.
Maybe she'd missed her calling.
"Well.. this will sound funny, I know," Logan said.
"Yes?"
"He smelled of fish."
"What do you mean?"
"When he handed the envelope across the desk, there was a faint whiff of fish rising from his hands."
"Fish?"
"Mm."
"James?" a voice from the bedroom called.
"Yes, Daryll?"
"Man, you goan be out there all night?"
"I think we're about finished," Logan called. In explanation, he added, "My cousin. From Seattle."
Georgie raised his eyebrows.
They called on Danny Gimp because they couldn't find The Cowboy again, and they didn't particularly like to deal with Fats Donner, the third man in their triumvirate of reliable informers. Danny, unlike most good informers, was not indebted to the police. They had nothing on him that could send him away. Or, if they did, they'd forgotten what the hell it was. Danny was a businessman, plain and simple, a superior purveyor of information who enjoyed the trust of the criminal community because they knew he was an ex-con, which was true. What was not true was that he'd been wounded during a big gang shoot-out, hence the limp.
Danny limped because he'd had polio as a child, something nobody had to worry about anymore. But pretending he'd once been shot gave him a certain cachet he considered essential to the business of informing. Even Carella, who'd been shot once or twice himself, thanks, had forgotten that story about getting shot was a lie.
"You ever notice that most of the cases we work together, it's wintertime?"
Danny asked.
"Seems that way."
"I wonder why," Danny said. "Maybe it's cause you hate winter. Don't you hate winter?"
"It's not my favorite season," Carella said. He was behind the wheel of the police car driving Danny and Hawes to an all-night deli on Stem. The snow had stopped and they were in a hurry to get going on this damn thing, but Danny something of a prima donna who didn't like to be treated like some cheap snitch who transfered information in back alleys or police cars. Hawes sitting in the back. Danny didn't ask Hawes what his favorite season was because he didn't particularly like the man. He didn't know why.
Maybe it was the streak in his hair. Made him look like the fuckin of Frankenstein. Or maybe it was the faint trace of Boston dialect that made him sound like one ofthe fuckin Kennedys. Whatever, he directed most of his conversation to Carella.
