There was an arrogance in his girth and his waddle, an insolence in his gaze that advertised his profession a mile away. If you didn’t know this man was a cop, you had no right being out on the street at this hour. And if you recognized him as such, you’d be a damn fool to mess with him. Ollie knew the shield wasn’t much protection these days; in some instances it would as easily encourage a slug as dissuade one. But the demeanor that said he was a cop also warned that there was a nine-millimeter semi-automatic in a holster under his jacket. He walked the empty hours of the night with not-quite immunity, but with something as close to it as anyone deserved.
At three-thirty in the morning, Althea Cleary’s street was a lot livelier than Ollie expected it would be. An all-night Korean grocery store stood ablaze with light on one corner. An all-night diner, equally incandescent, occupied the corner opposite. In a way, these two bustling places of business were good news. They widened the field of possible suspects beyond the invisible John Bridges; Althea could have left the club alone, got on and off the bus alone, and-in either the diner or the grocery store- met the man who’d later killed her. On the other hand, did Ollie really need or want a wider field? Why not expand the number of suspects to include the entire city, the entire state, the entire nation? Why not work this fucking case for the rest of his life?
He almost went home to bed.
This was, after all, just a little black hooker here.
Instead, he went into the grocery store, and sauntered over to the cash register with his coat open and his belly and the butt of the nine showing, hoping the smiling idiot behind the counter would think he was about to hold up the joint, heh heh. Inject a little humor here, right? Throw a minor scare into these slopes here, while never forgetting the magnitude of the mission, ah yes.
“Let me talk to the manager,” he said.
The manager or the owner or whoever he was came over grinning nervously.
“You know this girl?” Ollie asked.
The man looked at the picture.
“She live aroun corner,” he said.
“Right. Ever see her?”
“She killed,” he said.
“When’s the last time you saw her?” Ollie asked.
“Before kill.”
“When before?”
“Night before. She come in, buy milk.”
“What time was that?”
“Same now.”
“Three-thirty, around then?”
“T’ree-t’irty, yes.”
“Was she alone?”
“Alone, yes.”
“Say anything to you?”
“Say hello, goodbye.”
“Did you thank her for buying the milk?”
“What?”
“Forget it. How long was she in here?”
“Fi’ minute. Go across street diner.”
“Thanks,” Ollie said, and winked. “English word,” he explained, and walked out.
The diner at this hour was packed with what Ollie called “denizens,” which in his dictionary-but no one else’s- was the antonym of “citizens.” Here were the predators, the occupiers of the night, the people who woke up at midnight and began stalking the city like the wild animals they were. White, black, Latino, they all talked too loud and looked too tough till you shoved a nine in their face. The minute Ollie walked in, they knew he was a cop. To make the point clearer, he tossed open his coat and jacket, flashing the nine again. He didn’t want to sit on a stool with his back to the door. He took a booth in the corner instead, where he could watch the counter as well as anyone coming in or going out. He lifted a menu from where it was nesting between the napkin holder and the salt and pepper shakers, studied it briefly, and signaled to the waitress. She was thirty-three or -four, Ollie guessed, not a beautiful woman, but there was something very sexy about her weariness.
“Bring me two burgers and a large order of fries,” he told her.
“We only got one size order of fries,” she told him.
“What size is that?”
“It don’t have a designation. It’s just the fries we serve as a side order.”
“Okay, bring me two of them.”
“They’re just the normal size of the side order.”
“Good, bring me two of the normal size.”
“I mean, that’s not their designation or anything, they don’t have a designation. That’s just the size they are.”
“That’s fine,” Ollie said. “Two orders. Whatever size they are.”
“Two burgers, two sides of fries,” the waitress said, and walked off to place the order. When she came back some five minutes later, Ollie’s shield was sitting on the table. He pointed to it, winked, and said, “When it quiets down a little, I want to talk to you.”
The waitress looked at the shield.
“Sure,” she said. “I have a break at four. I’ll bring myself a cup of coffee.”
“What would you say if I told you I know how to play piano?” he asked.
“Do you?”
“I’m gonna learn.”
“Good for you,” she said. “I’ll see you later.”
She came back again at a few minutes past four. She offered him a cigarette, lighted one for herself when he refused, and then sipped at the coffee she’d carried with her to the table. Stretching her legs, she said, “So who killed who?”
“How’d you guess?”
“You look like Homicide.”
“Bite your tongue,” Ollie said.
“I used to date a Homicide cop.”
