Sadie When She Died полностью

“I don’t know like what. They’ve got a grand jury indictment, they’re preparing a case against Corwin, how the hell do I know what you might do? The way things are going these days, if you spit on the sidewalk that’s enough to get a case thrown out of court.”

“Fletcher hated his wife,” Carella said calmly.

“Lots of men hate their wives. Half the men in this city hate their wives.”

“According to Hart . . .”

“All right, so she was playing around a little, so what? She had herself a little fling, who doesn’t? Half the women in this city are having little flings right this minute.”

“Her little fling gives Fletcher a good reason for . . . look, Pete, what the hell else do we need? He had a motive, he had the opportunity, a golden one, in fact, and he had the means—another man’s knife sticking out of Sarah’s gut. What more do you want?”

“Proof. There’s a funny little system we’ve got here in this city, Steve. It requires proof before we can arrest a man and charge him with murder.”

“Right. And all I’m asking is the opportunity to try for it.”

“Sure. By putting a tail on Fletcher. Suppose he sues the goddamn city?”

“For what?”

“He’ll think of something.”

“Yes or no, Pete? I want permission to conduct a round-the-clock surveillance of Gerald Fletcher, starting Sunday morning. Yes or no?”

“I must be out of my mind,” Byrnes said, and sighed.

At 7:30 P . M . on the loneliest night of the week, Bert Kling did a foolish thing. He telephoned Nora Simonov. He did not expect her to be home, so he really did not know why he was calling her. He could only suppose that he was experiencing that great American illness known as the Saturday Night Funk, not to be confused with the Sunday Evening Hiatus or the Monday Morning Blues, none of which are daily newspapers.

The Saturday Night Funk (or the Snf, as it is familiarly known to those who have ever suffered from it) generally begins the night before, along about eight o’clock, when one realizes he does not have a date for that fabulous flight of **FUN** and **FRIVOLITY** known as S*A*T*U*R*D*A*Y N*I*G*H*T U*S*A.

There is no need for panic at this early juncture, of course. The mythical magical merriment is not scheduled to begin for at least another twenty-four hours, time yet to call a dozen birds or even a hundred, no need for any reaction more potent than a mild sort of self-chastisement for having been so tardy in making arrangements for the gay gaudy gala to follow. And should one fail to make a connection that Friday, there is still all day tomorrow to twirl those little holes in the telephone dial and ring up this or that hot number—Hello, sweetie, I was wondering whether you’d be available for an entertaining evening of enjoyment and eventual enervation—plenty of time, no need to worry.

By Saturday afternoon at about three, the first signs of anxiety begin to set in as this or that luscious lovely announces that, Oh my, I would have been thrilled and delighted to accompany you even into the mouth of a cannon, but oh goodness here it is Saturday afternoon already and you can’t expect to call a girl at the last minute and have her free on D*A*T*E N*I*G*H*T U*S*A, can you? Last minute? What last minute? It is still only three in the afternoon, four in the afternoon, five in the evening. Evening? When did it become evening? And desperation pounces.

A quick brush of the hair, a sprinkle of cologne in the armpits, a bold adventurous approach to the phone (cigarette dangling from the lip), a nonchalant scanning of the little black book, a forthright dialing, and, Oh my, I would have adored going with you to the moon or even Jupiter and back, but here it is almost six o’clock on the most R*O*M*A*N*T*I*C N*I*G*H*T of the week, you don’t expect a girl to be free at this late hour, do you? The Snf has arrived. It has arrived full-blown because it is now six o’clock, fast approaching seven, and at the stroke of seven-thirty you will turn into Spiro Agnew.

At the stroke of seven-thirty, Bert Kling called Nora Simonov, certain that she’d be out having a good time, like everybody else in the United States of America on this Saturday night.

“Hullo?” she said.

“Nora?” he said, surprised.

“Yes?”

“Hi. This is Bert Kling.”

“Hullo,” she said, “what time is it?”

“Seven-thirty.”

“I must’ve fallen asleep. I was watching the six o’clock news.” She yawned and then quickly said, “Excuse me.”

“Shall I call you back?”

“What for?”

“Give you a chance to wake up.”

“I’m awake, that’s okay.”

The line went silent.

“Well . . . uh . . . how are you?” Kling asked.

“Fine,” Nora said, and the line went silent again.