Эд Макбейн - Bread

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Hemmings,” Ollie said, and extended his hand.

Hemmings was a handsome man of perhaps fifty, impeccably dressed in a brown lightweight business suit, beige shirt with a button-down collar, simple tie of a deeper shade of brown. His face was craggy, a strong sledgehammer nose, well-pronounced cheekbones, a firm mouth, a square jaw. His hair was turning gray, styled to hide the fact that it was thinning a bit. His handshake was firm. He smiled thinly and said in a very low voice, “Nice to meet you, Detective Weeks.”

Ollie did not miss the fact that Hemmings knew who he was. This meant that Worthy and Chase had discussed him with their partner. He filed away the information, and said, “I really didn’t just happen to be in the neighborhood. I came up here deliberately.” Worthy and Hemmings said nothing. “First of all, I wanted to apologize,” Ollie said. “I really behaved like an asshole yesterday, Mr. Worthy. I don’t know what got into me.” The Diamondback partners still said nothing. “Also, I wanted to tell you we got the people we think killed Charlie Harrod. Least of all, we know they beat up Harrod’s girlfriend. I just came from the hospital, where I got positive identification on four of them, so I thought you’d be happy to hear that.”

“Yes, we’re very happy to hear that,” Worthy said.

“You fellows put in a long week, don’t you?” Ollie said. “Work Saturdays and all, huh?”

“So do you, it seems,” Hemmings said, and again smiled his razor-blade smile.

“No, no, I’m off today,” Ollie said. “Think I’ll take in a ball game or something.” He paused, and then said, “By the way, Mr. Hemmings, we stopped by at an apartment we thought was yours because we were trying to locate you this morning...”

“Oh?” Hemmings said.

“Yeah, when we picked up these guys, you know, who we think killed Harrod.”

“Yes?” Hemmings said.

“Yes,” Ollie said. “Yes. We wanted somebody in the company to know about it, and I was a little embarrassed about contacting Mr. Worthy here because of the way I hassled him yesterday.” He smiled in apology. “So we went over to the apartment on Saint Sebastian.”

“Why didn’t you simply telephone?” Hemmings asked.

“Well, it was close by, no sweat.” Ollie paused. “We met the girl living there.”

“Yes?” Hemmings said.

“Yes. Girl named Rosalie Waggener. Nice girl.”

Hemmings said nothing.

“She ought to get the door fixed,” Ollie said. “The lock’s busted.” He smiled again. “Well, just thought I’d let you know everything’s all wrapped up, and I’m sorry I gave you such a hard time. I’ll see you, huh? Keep up the good work here in Diamondback.” He chopped his beefy hand into the air in farewell, and went out. In the hallway outside, he put his ear to the frosted-glass door and listened. Someone was dialing a telephone. He expected that would be Oscar Hemmings trying to reach his little white bimbo. Ollie smiled and went downstairs and out of the building.

The streets were already beginning to blister under the onslaught of the early-morning sun. Ollie walked two blocks up Landis, turned left, and continued walking north toward the River Harb. A green panel truck was parked in front of an abandoned warehouse facing the river. The man at the wheel of the truck was dozing, a cap pulled down over his eyes, a matchstick between his teeth. Ollie rapped on the partially closed window, and the man jerked suddenly awake.

“I’m Weeks,” Ollie said. “You the guy from the Motor Pool?”

“Yeah,” the man said. “Halloran.”

Ollie stepped back and looked over the truck. “They sent a good one for a change,” he said. “It must be a miracle. Most of these goddamn trucks, everybody in the neighborhood knows it’s taking pictures. This is a nice one, company name painted on the side and everything. Even a phony telephone number. Real classy.”

“The number’s hooked into a phone at Headquarters downtown,” Halloran said. “Anybody calls it to check whether this is a phony truck, a guy answers and gives the name of the company painted on the side there.”

“Ah yes,” Ollie said in his W. C. Fields voice, “very classy, very classy indeed.” In his natural voice he said, “I got to make a phone call, Halloran. Soon as I’m done, we’re heading for 2914 Landis. Okay?”

“Sure, why not?” Halloran said, and shrugged.

When the telephone rang on Carella’s desk, he thought it might be Yarborough calling back from Castleview. Instead, it was Ollie Weeks.

“Carella,” he said, “this is Ollie. Has Hawes called in yet?”

“No. Why?”

“I found Oscar Hemmings, there’s no need for him to stick with the girl.”

“I’ll tell him if he calls.”

“There’s one other thing,” Ollie said. “He was up there alone with Worthy, which means I can’t get nothing on Chase. You want to handle that from your end?”

“You thinking of the IS?”

“Yeah, Chase has a record, so they’re sure to have mug shots of him.”

“Will do,” Carella said.

“I got to get moving,” Ollie said. “Before my jigaboo friends decide to leave without me.”

Rosalie Waggener came down the front steps of 1137 St. Sebastian at a little past 10:30. She was wearing bell-bottomed, hip-hugger tan pants, a scoop-necked, horizontally striped top, and brown low-heeled shoes. In her right hand, she was clutching a small brown pocketbook, which she waved frantically at a passing taxicab the moment she stepped onto the curb.

Cotton Hawes, watching from the doorway across the street, did not know that a call to the squadroom would have advised him to drop the tail. He knew only that he had better get to his car damn fast, because the cab had already squealed to a stop just ahead and was now backing up to the curb to pick up Rosalie. Hawes’s car was parked halfway up the block. He began walking swiftly, turning once to see Rosalie getting into the taxi. He had just climbed behind the wheel, and was starting the car, when the taxi flashed by.

With a little luck, Hawes figured he would catch up at the next traffic light.

In the rear of the panel truck, sitting behind a camera equipped with a telescopic lens and mounted on a tripod, Ollie Weeks sat behind the equivalent of a one-way-two-way mirror, waiting to take photographs of Worthy and Hemmings the moment they came out of the building across the street. Ollie was looking through a clear pane of glass. The other side of the glass was painted green, like the side of the truck, and then lettered over in yellow paint with the name of the fake company, its address, and the telephone number of the phone downtown at Headquarters.

There was a steady stream of traffic, mostly women, into 2914 Landis. Ollie figured they were heading up to BLACK FASHIONS on the third floor. Ollie watched the women through the telescopic lens. One thing you had to say for black broads, they had good legs.

Hemmings and Worthy did not come out of the building until twenty minutes past 11:00. The moment they appeared at the top of the steps, coming through the door, Ollie began taking pictures. He cocked the camera and pressed the shutter release a total of thirteen times before they reached the sidewalk, and then he got three more shots of them moving away in profile. Ollie nodded in satisfaction and rapped on the panel leading to the front of the truck.

Halloran slid it open. “Yeah?”

“I need to go downtown to the IS,” Ollie said.

“You finished here?” Halloran asked.

“Yeah. But I got to get this stuff developed and printed.”

“I’m supposed to take the truck back when you’re finished.”

“You can take me downtown first.”