Ed McBain - The Last Dance

asked to tell the difference between Morgan Freeman,

Denzel Washington, Eddie Murphy, and Mike Tyson,

there'd have been no problem. Maybe. But when the police artist asked them to choose from representative eyes, noses, mouths, cheeks, chins, and foreheads, all at once all black men looked alike. Then again, they might have had similar difficulty describing an Asian suspect.

In the long run—like many other decisions in America—the result was premised on race. The blacks had better luck describing the black suspect, and the whites had better luck with the white one. The detectives were less than satisfied with what the artist finally

Ed McBam

delivered. They felt the composite sketches were

well . . . sketchy at best.

When Carella and Meyer walked in late that Tuesday

morning, Fat Ollie Weeks was sitting alone in a booth

at the rear of the diner, totally absorbed in his breakfast.

Acknowledging their presence with a brief nod, Ollie

stabbed a sausage with his fork and hoisted it immediately

to his mouth. A ribbon of egg yolk dribbled from the sausage onto Ollie's tie, where it joined a medley of other crusted and hardened remnants of breakfasts, lunches, and dinners devoured in haste. Ollie always ate as if expecting an imminent famine. He picked up his cup, swallowed a huge gulp of coffee, and then smiled in satisfaction and at last looked across the table at the two visiting cops. He did not offer his hand; cops rarely shook hands with each other, even during social encounters.

"So what brings you up here?" he asked.

"The murder yesterday," Carella said.

"What murder?" Ollie asked. Here in Zimbabwe West, as he often referred to his beloved Eighty-eighth Precinct, there were murders every day of the week, every minute of the day.

"An informer named Danny Gimp," Carella said.

"I know him," Ollie said.

"Two shooters marched into Guide's Pizzeria while

we were having a conversation," Carella said.

"Maybe they were after you," Ollie suggested.

"No, I'm universally well-liked," Carella said. "They

were after Danny, and they got him."

"Where's Guide's?"

"Culver and Sixth."

"That's your turf, man."

"Lewiston isn't."

"Okay, I'll bite."

"A pal of Danny's was in a poker game a week ago

Saturday," Meyer said. "On Lewiston Avenue."

"Met a hitter from Houston who later treated him to a little booze, a little pot, some casual sex, and a strip of

roofers."

"Uh-huh," Ollie said, and signaled to the waitress.

"So what's that got to do with me?"

"Lewiston is up here in the Eight-Eight."

"So? I'm supposed to know every shitty little card

game in the precinct?" Ollie said. "Give me another toasted onion bagel with cream cheese," he told the waitress. "You guys want anything?"

"Just coffee," Meyer said.

"The same," Carella said.

"You got that?" Ollie asked the waitress, who nodded

and walked off toward the counter. "You think this card game's gonna lead you to the shooters?"

"No, we think it's gonna lead us to the hitter from

Houston."

"World's just full of hitters these days, ain't it?" Ollie

said philosophically. "You think your Houston hitter and

the two pizzeria shooters are connected?"

"No."

"Then what are you . . . ?"

"Don't you work in the Eight-Three?" the waitress

asked, and put down Ollie's bagel and the two coffees.

"I used to work in the Eight-Three," Ollie said. "I got

transferred."

"You want more coffee?"

"Ah, yes, m'dear," Ollie said, doing his world-famous

W. C. Fields imitation. "If it's not too much trouble, ah, yes."

"You like it here better than the Eight-Three?" the

waitress asked, pouring.

"I like it better wherever you are, m'little chickadee."

"Sweet talker," she said, and smiled and walked off,

shaking her considerable booty.

"People ask me that all the time," Ollie said. "Don't

you work in the Eight-Three? As if I don't know where

the fuck I work. As if I'm making a fuckin mistake about where I work. The world's full of people playin Gotchal They got nothin to do with their time but look for mistakes. Ain't your middle name Lloyd? Hell, no, it's Wendell. Oliver Wendell Weeks, I don't know my own fuckin middle name? If I told you once it was Lloyd or Frank or Ralph, I was lying, it was all part of my fuckin cover."

A faint effluvial odor seemed to rise from Ollie whenever he became agitated, as he was now. Ignoring his own bodily emanations, he picked up the bagel and bit into it, his gnashing teeth unleashing a gush of cream cheese that spilled onto the right lapel of his jacket.

"Has this guy got a name?" he asked. "The fag was

in the card game with your hitter?"

"Harpo," Carella said.

"Works at the First Bap?" Ollie said.

Both detectives looked at him.

"Only Harpo I know up here," Ollie said. "I'm surprised he was in a card game, though. If it's the same guy."

"Harpo what?" Meyer asked.

"His square handle is Walter Hopwell, don't ask me

how it got to be Harpo. I never knew he was queer till

you guys mentioned it just now. Goes to show, don't it?

Ain't you hungry?" he asked, and signaled to the waitress

again. "Bring my friends here some more coffee," he said,

"they're famous sleuths from a neighboring precinct. And I'll have one of them croissants there." He pronounced the

word as if he were fluent in French, but it was only his stomach talking. "Thing I'm askin myself," he said, "is

how come a white stoolie is pals with a Negro fag?"

Ollie liked using the word "Negro" every now and then because he believed it showed how tolerant he was, even though he realized it pissed off persons of color who preferred being called either blacks or African-Americans. But it had taken him long enough to learn how to say "Negro," so if they wanted to keep changing it on him all the time, they could go fuck themselves.

"Would he be at the church now?" Carella asked.

"Should be. They got a regular office setup on the top floor."

"Let's go," Meyer said.

"You wanna start a race riot?" Ollie asked, and grinned as if he relished the prospect. "The First Bap's listed as a sensitive location. I was you, I'd look up Mr Hopwell in the phone book, go see him when he gets home from work."

"Our man's leaving town tomorrow," Carella said.

"In that case, darlings, let me finish my breakfast," Ollie said. "Then we can all go to church."

Brown's mother used to call her "The Barber's Wife." This was another name for the neighborhood gossip. The theory was that a guy went to get a haircut or a shave, he was captive in the barber's chair for an hour or so, he told the barber everything on his mind. The barber went home that night, and over supper told his wife everything he'd heard from all his customers all day long. The Barber's Wife knew more about what was happening in any neighborhood than any cop on the beat. What Brown and Kling wanted to do now was find The Barber's Wife in Andrew Bale's building.

There were six stories in the building, three tenants to each floor. When they got there that morning at a little past ten, most of the tenants were off to work. They knocked on six doors before they got an answer,

and then another two before they found the woman they

were looking for. Her apartment was on the same floor

as Andrew Hale's. She lived at the far end of the hall, in

apartment C. When she asked them to come in, please,

they hesitated on the door sill because she was cooking

something that smelled unspeakably vile.

The stench was coming from a big aluminum pot on the kitchen stove. When she lifted the lid to stir whatever