Georgie's twin, no doubt. Similarly dressed, down to the hardware under the wide-shouldered suit jacket. Hawes flashed his shield, too. It never hurt to make the same point twice. "
"Police officers," he said.
Must be an echo in this place, Carella thought.
"Is Miss Stetson in some kind of trouble?" Georgie's twin asked. Two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle and bone draped in Giorgio Armani threads. No broken nose, but otherwise the stereotype was complete.
"Miss Stetson's grandmother was killed," Hawes said calmly.
"Everything's under control here. Why don't you just go back to your table, hm?"
A buzz was starting in the room now. Four big guys surrounding the room's star, looked like there might be some kind of trouble here. One thing people in this city didn't much care for was trouble. First whiff of trouble, people in this city picked up their skirts and ran for the hills. Even out-of-towners in this city (which some of the people in the room looked like), even foreigners in the city (which some of the other people in the room looked like), the minute they caught that first faint whiff of trouble brewing, they were out of here, man. Miss Priscilla Stetson, Now Appearing 9:00 P.M.-2:00 A.M. was in imminent danger of playing her last set to an empty room. She suddenly remembered the time. "I'm on," she said. "We'll talk later," and left the four men standing there with their thumbs up their asses. Like most macho fools who display their manhood to no avail, the men stood glaring at each other a moment longer, and then mentally flexed their muscles with a few seconds of eye lock before the two cops went back to the bar and the two gun-toting whatever-they-weres went back to their table.
Priscilla, professionally aloof to whatever masculineness were surfacing here, warmly sang a setting of "My Funny Valentine," "My Romance," I Loved You" and "Sweet and Lovely." A woman at one of the tables asked her escort why they don't write love songs like that anymore, and he said, "now they write hate songs." It was 2:00 A.M.
Either Georgie (or his twin brother Frankie or or Dominick or Foongie) asked Priscilla why she hadn't played the theme song from The Godfather She sweetly told them no one had requested it, them both on their respective cheeks and kissed them off. Big detectives that were, neither Carella nor Hawes yet knew they were bodyguards or wiseguys.
Priscilla the bar.
"Too late for a glass of champagne?" she asked the bartender.
He knew she was kidding; he poured one in a flute. Dispersing guests came over to tell Priscilla how terrific she'd been. Graciously, she thanked them all and sent them on their early morning way. Priscilla wasn't a star, she was just a good singer in a small cafe in a modest hotel, but she carried herself well. They could tell by the way she merely sipped at the champagne that she wasn't a big drinker. Maybe her grandmother had something to do with that. Which brought them back to the corpse in the shabby mink coat.
"I told you," Priscilla said. "All her friends are dead. I couldn't give you their names if I wanted to."
"How about enemies?" Carella asked. "All of them dead, too?"
"My grandmother was alonely old woman livin alone. She had no friends, she had no enemies. Period."
"So it had to be a burglar, right?" Hawes asked. Priscilla looked at him as if discovering him for the first time. Looked him up and down. Red hair white streak, size twelve gunboats.
"That's your job, isn't it?" she asked coolly "Determining whether it was a burglar or not?"
"And, by the way, she did have a friend," he corrected.
"Oh?"
"Woman down the hall. Played her old records to her."
"Please. She played those old 78s for anyone who'd listen."
"Ever meet her?"
"Who?"
"Woman named Karen Todd. Lived down the hall from your grandmother."
"No."
"When's the last time you saw her alive?" Hawes asked.
"We didn't get along."
"So we understand. When did you see her last?"
"Must'a been around Eastertime."
"Long time ago."
"Yeah," she said, and fell suddenly silent. I guess 'i'll have to call my mother, huh?" she asked. "Might be a good idea,"
Carella said. "Let her know what happened."
"Mm."
"What time is it in London?"
"I don't know," Carella said.
"Five or six hours ahead, is that it?"
Hawes shook his head, shrugged.
Priscilla fell silent again.
The champagne glass was empty now. "Why'd you hate her?" Carella asked. "For what she did to herself."
"She didn't cause the arthritis," Hawes said. "She caused the alcoholism."
"Which came first?"
"Who knows? Who cares? She was one of the She ended up a nobody."
"Enemies," Carella said again. don't know of any." it had to be a burglar," Hawes said again.
"Who cares what it was?" Priscilla asked. "We do," Carella said.
It was time to stop the clock.
