The man who owned El Centro lived across the river in the next state. He very rarely visited his establishment. He left it in the capable managerial hands of Terry Donohue, a big Irishman with big fists. Donohue was, for a precinct Irishman, most unusual: he liked Puerto Ricans. This is not to say that he liked only Puerto Rican women. That was certainly true. But there were many "Americans" in the 87th Precinct who detested the influx of the "foreigners" while secretly admiring the tight wiggle of a foreign female's backside. Terry liked them both male and female. He also liked running El Centro. He had worked in dives all over the world, and he was fond of saying El Centro was the worst, but he still like it.
In fact, Terry Donohue liked just about everything. And considering the joint he ran, it was surprising that he could find anything to like in a cop-but he liked Steve Carella, and he greeted him warmly when the detective showed up later that day.
"You lop-eared wop!" he shouted. "I hear you got married!"
"I did," Carella said, grinning foolishly.
"The poor girl must be nuts," Terry said, shaking his massive head. "I'll send her a basket of condolences."
"The poor girl is in her right mind," Carella replied. "She picked the best available man in the city."
"Hoo! Listen to him!" Terry shouted. "What's her name, lad?"
"Teddy."
"Terry?" Terry asked unbelievingly. "Terry, is it?"
"Teddy. For Theodora."
"And Theodora
"Franklin, it used to be."
Terry cocked his head to one side. "An Irish lass, perhaps?"
"Catch me marrying an Irish girl," Carella said, grinning.
"A mountain guinea like you could do worse than a sweet Irish lass," Terry said.
"She's Scotch," Carella told him.
"Good, good!" Terry bellowed. "I'm four-fifths Irish myself, with a fifth of Scotch thrown in."
"Ouch!" Carella said.
Terry scratched his head. "I usually get a laugh from the cops on that one. What're you drinking, Steve?"
"Nothing. I'm here on business."
"And business was never harmed, by God, by a tiny bit of alcohol."
"Have you seen Maria Hernandez around?"
"Now, Stevie," Terry said, "with a sweet little Scotch lass at home, why would you…"
"Business," Carella said.
"Good," Terry said. "A constant man in a city of inconsistencies."
"Inconstancies," Carella corrected.
"Whatever, she hasn't been in yet today. Is this about her brother?"
"Yes."
"A junkie, too, huh?"
"Yes."
"One thing gets me sore," Terry said, "is narcotics. Have you ever seen a pusher in here, Steve?"
"No," Carella said. "But I've seen plenty outside on the sidewalk."
"Sure, because the customer's always right, and he gets what he wants. But you never saw one of those scurvy bastards in my shop, and you never will, that's the truth."
"When do you expect her?"
"She doesn't roll around until about two. That's if she gets here at all. You know junkies, Steve. Figuring, figuring, always figuring. I swear to God, the president of General Motors doesn't have to do as much conniving as a junkie does."
Carella glanced at his watch. It was 12:27.
"I'll be back later," he said. "I want to grab lunch."
"You're offending me," Terry said.
"Huh?"
"Can't you read the sign outside? Bar and
"Yeah?"
"How's the girl?"
Terry grinned more widely. "I couldn't say, having only sampled the dear thing's cooking."
"I've been poisoned in worse places," Carella said. "Let's have it."
Maria Hernandez did not walk into El Centro until three that afternoon. A John from downtown on a romance-seeking excursion would probably have passed her by as a sweet, innocent high-school senior. For whereas the common stereotype puts all prostitutes in tight silk dresses slit to the navel, such is not the case. As a general rule, most of the prostitutes in the 87th were better and more stylishly dressed than the honest women in the streets. They were well-groomed and very often polite and courteous, so much so that many of the little girls in the neighborhood looked up to the hookers as the cream of society. In much the same way as the pamphlets that go through the mails in a plain brown wrapper, you couldn't tell what these girls had under their covers unless you knew them.
Carella did not know Maria Hernandez. He looked up from his drink when she walked into the bar, and he saw a somewhat slight girl who looked no more than eighteen. Her hair was black, and her eyes were very brown, and she wore a green coat open over a white sweater and a straight black skirt. Like a suburban housewife, she wore nylons and loafers.
"There she is," Terry said, and Carella nodded.
