“It’s even spelled differently.”
“Oh, is that right?”
“I wouldn’t worry about it.”
“On your block, Fat Ollie Watts ain’t Fat Ollie Weeks, huh? Then what is it?”
“It’s Watts.”
“Who the fuck is this guy?”
“Fat Ollie Watts,” Meyer said. “I just told you.”
“Not him! The guy who wrote the fuckin book1 Don’t he even know I exist?”
“Gee, I guess not.”
“He’s writing a book about cops and he never heard of me? A real person! He never heard of Oliver Wendell Weeks!”
“Oh, come on, Ollie, relax. This is just another Thomas Harris ripoff serial-killer novel. I wouldn’t worry about it.”
“Does this fuckin guy live on Mars, he never heard of me?”
“He lives in Ireland, I told you.”
“Where in Ireland? In some booth in a pub? In some stone hut by the side of the road? In some fuckin smelly bog!”
“Gee, I’m sorry I even mentioned it.”
“What’s this guy’s name?”
“I told you. Fat Ollie…”
“Not him,” Ollie said. “The writer. The fuckin writer!”
“I’ll tell you the truth,” Meyer said, grinning, “I’ve already forgotten it.”
And hung up.
The two men met in a bar at five that afternoon. Both were officially off duty. Carella ordered a beer. Ollie ordered a Harvey Wallbanger.
“So what’s this about?” Carella asked.
“I told you on the phone.”
“Some girl got stabbed…”
“Black girl named Althea Cleary. Eight times, according to the ME.
Knife was still in her chest. Weapon of convenience. Matches the set in her kitchen. Thing that made me think of you was Blaney telling me…”
“Which Blaney?”
“I don’t know. How many Blaneys are there?”
“Two. I think.”
“Well, this was one of them,” Ollie said. “He told me the girl had maybe been doped. With guess what?”
Carella looked at him.
“Yeah,” Ollie said.
“Rohypnol?”
“Rohypnol. Hey, bartender!” he yelled. “Excuse me, but did you put any vodka in this fuckin drink?”
“I put vodka in it,” the bartender said.
“Cause what I can do, I can take it down the police lab, we’ll run some toxicological tests on it, see if there’s any alcohol in it at all.”
“Everything’s in it supposed to be in it,” the bartender said. “That’s a good strong drink you got there.”
“Then whyn’t you make me another one just like it, on the house this time, it’s so fuckin good.”
“Why on the house?” the bartender asked.
“Cause your toilet’s leakin and your bathroom window’s painted shut,” Ollie said. “Those are both violations.”
Which they weren’t.
“You’re sure she was doped?” Carella said.
“According to Blaney.”
“And he’s sure it was roofers?”
“Positive.”
“What you’re suggesting is a link to my case.”
“By George, I think you’ve got it.”
“You’re saying because they were both doped…”
“Yep.”
“… and later murdered, there’s a link.”
“Which don’t seem like too extravagant a surmise.”
“I think it’s a very far reach, Ollie.”
“Here’s your Wallbanger,” the bartender said, and banged it down on the bar.
Ollie shoved his chair away from the table and walked over to pick it up. Watching him, Carella thought he moved surprisingly fast for a fat man.
Ollie lifted the glass, sipped at it, smacked his lips, said, “Excellent, my good fellow, truly superior,” and came back to the table. “It ain’t a far reach at all,” he told Carella.
“No? You’re saying the same person who hanged my guy may have stabbed your girl.”
“I’m saying there’s a pattern here. In police work, we call it an M.O.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Happy to inform,” Ollie said, and raised his glass in a silent toast, and drank. “There ain’t no vodka in this one, either,” he said and looked into the glass.
Carella was thinking.
“Questions,” he said.
“Shoot.”
“Do you have any evidence at all that Allison Cleary…?”
“Althea.”
“… knew John Bridges?”
“None at all. But they could have met.”
“How?”
“Guy’s up from Houston, right? Out on the town, from what it appears, am I right? With a little help from his friends, he does a hanging, then goes out to play some cards on the weekend. Meets our little faggot friend Harpo, introduces him to his friends, too, here, pal, take these with you, they’ll help your sex life, tee hee. Meaning, if Harpo is ever bisexually inclined, he can drop a few tabs in a young lady’s drink, induce her to slobber the Johnson. Which is exactly what Bridges or whoever he is done two nights later to little Althea Cleary.”
“Where do you think they met?”
“Lady lives upstairs from her has cappuccino with her every now and then. Tells me the girl works nights for the telephone company. Okay, I’m prowling her pad, I find a social security card in her handbag. You want to know where she worked?”
“You just told me. The telephone company.”
“Yeah, but not AT amp;T. What I done, I checked the ID number on her social security card with Soc Sec Admin. Employer contributions on her behalf were made for the past six months to a go-go joint called The Telephone Company on The Stem downtown. Wanna go dancin, Steve-arino?”
The last plane to Houston that Wednesday night, a non-stop Delta flight scheduled to arrive at Houston-Intercontinental at 9:01 P. M., closed its doors at 6:00 P. M. sharp.
There were no Jamaicans on it.
