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Authors: Don Winslow
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park.”
“How did Allie look? Okay?”
“Yeah, I guess so. A little ratty maybe. Sweatshirt and jeans.”
“Was she stoned?”
“Yeah, maybe. She was laughing a lot.”
“What about the dealer? What did he look like?”
“Cool. Very cool.” Scott smiled.
Some detectives can deal with “civilians,” others can’t. They get impatient and scream things like, “‘Cool. Very cool.’ What the hell does that mean?” Such detectives love to get clothing-store robberies, because the witnesses are perfect. (“This forty-two long in a cheap maroon blazer, gray polyester slacks, and Buster Browns comes in and …”)
“What was cool about him?”
“He had real short hair and was wearing a double-breasted suit with a T-shirt! He was real slick with the money and the dope, like it was all a big joke, like he was selling hot dogs, or something.”
“Big guy? Little?”
“About your size. Bigger-boned.”
“If he plays football, what position is he?”
“Halfback, maybe a small tight end.”
“Did he have a name?”
“Not that I heard.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah, he had three safety pins stuck through his ear.”
I’m glad you brought that up, Scott. That might just help identify him. “Three safety pins?”
“Yeah,” answered Scott with unmixed admiration.
“What about the girls? You remember their names?”
“Ginger and Yvonne.”
Swell.
“The name of the service you called?”
“Sorry.”
“C’mon. You do this a lot?”
“No! We were drunk! You know.”
“How about the hotel?”
“The Piccadilly Hotel.”
Never ask a witness more than two questions in a row he can’t answer. Make sure you pitch him a watermelon every once in a while. Builds his confidence. The Gospel According to St. Joseph. Graham.
“Did the two hookers seem to know Allie? They say hi or anything?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Did the dealer say anything to her?”
“No. Not a word.”
“Anything else you remember or you want to tell me?” “It was kind of a blur. You know?” Neal nodded. He knew.
“Thanks, Scott,” he said, going through the ritual “You’ve been a big help.” “Can I go?”
“Hey, you have an exam tomorrow.” Scott started to slide out of the booth.
“One more thing,” Neal said, realizing he was doing a Columbo imitation. “The hash, how was it?”
Jack Armstrong Ail-American Boy grinned. “Primo.”
Neal‘s motel room was nothing special, but it had the essentials—a bed with a rationally placed reading light, a phone within easy reach, and a color TV that brought in the Yankees game. It also had clean glasses. Neal was feeling semicivilized, so he used one of them to belt down three slugs of scotch before dialing the phone.
Ed Levine answered after seven rings. He said hello with the voice of a man who doesn’t like being called at home.
“Ed?”
“Yeah?”
“Keep your fat fingers off my fucking case.”
Neal hung up the phone and sat back in bed as Guidry smoked another Angel. Maybe, he thought, maybe he could find the aptly named Alison Chase if she was still with this dealer.
The dealer was a pro, no question. He had good technique and some connections. He screened his first-time customers coming in and did small-time courtesy deals for business connections. And if he had turned Allie on, he hadn’t turned her over—yet. Definitely a yet, because a businessman doesn’t waste a commodity as valuable as a beautiful young girl. Unless he really loves her, then it will take a little longer.
So there was a place to start. Find the dealer and you have a shot at finding Allie. A long shot, indeed, but you’ve seen them hit before.
Just to encourage him, Guidry threw a curve that didn’t, which the batter pulled right and put over the fence as the base runner trotted contemptuously home.
Neal consoled himself with chapter seven of The Making of the English Working Class and another scotch.
Neal spent a very boring day and a half
“How did Allie look? Okay?”
“Yeah, I guess so. A little ratty maybe. Sweatshirt and jeans.”
“Was she stoned?”
“Yeah, maybe. She was laughing a lot.”
“What about the dealer? What did he look like?”
“Cool. Very cool.” Scott smiled.
Some detectives can deal with “civilians,” others can’t. They get impatient and scream things like, “‘Cool. Very cool.’ What the hell does that mean?” Such detectives love to get clothing-store robberies, because the witnesses are perfect. (“This forty-two long in a cheap maroon blazer, gray polyester slacks, and Buster Browns comes in and …”)
“What was cool about him?”
“He had real short hair and was wearing a double-breasted suit with a T-shirt! He was real slick with the money and the dope, like it was all a big joke, like he was selling hot dogs, or something.”
“Big guy? Little?”
“About your size. Bigger-boned.”
“If he plays football, what position is he?”
“Halfback, maybe a small tight end.”
“Did he have a name?”
“Not that I heard.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah, he had three safety pins stuck through his ear.”
I’m glad you brought that up, Scott. That might just help identify him. “Three safety pins?”
“Yeah,” answered Scott with unmixed admiration.
“What about the girls? You remember their names?”
“Ginger and Yvonne.”
Swell.
“The name of the service you called?”
“Sorry.”
“C’mon. You do this a lot?”
“No! We were drunk! You know.”
“How about the hotel?”
“The Piccadilly Hotel.”
Never ask a witness more than two questions in a row he can’t answer. Make sure you pitch him a watermelon every once in a while. Builds his confidence. The Gospel According to St. Joseph. Graham.
“Did the two hookers seem to know Allie? They say hi or anything?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Did the dealer say anything to her?”
“No. Not a word.”
“Anything else you remember or you want to tell me?” “It was kind of a blur. You know?” Neal nodded. He knew.
“Thanks, Scott,” he said, going through the ritual “You’ve been a big help.” “Can I go?”
“Hey, you have an exam tomorrow.” Scott started to slide out of the booth.
“One more thing,” Neal said, realizing he was doing a Columbo imitation. “The hash, how was it?”
Jack Armstrong Ail-American Boy grinned. “Primo.”
Neal‘s motel room was nothing special, but it had the essentials—a bed with a rationally placed reading light, a phone within easy reach, and a color TV that brought in the Yankees game. It also had clean glasses. Neal was feeling semicivilized, so he used one of them to belt down three slugs of scotch before dialing the phone.
Ed Levine answered after seven rings. He said hello with the voice of a man who doesn’t like being called at home.
“Ed?”
“Yeah?”
“Keep your fat fingers off my fucking case.”
Neal hung up the phone and sat back in bed as Guidry smoked another Angel. Maybe, he thought, maybe he could find the aptly named Alison Chase if she was still with this dealer.
The dealer was a pro, no question. He had good technique and some connections. He screened his first-time customers coming in and did small-time courtesy deals for business connections. And if he had turned Allie on, he hadn’t turned her over—yet. Definitely a yet, because a businessman doesn’t waste a commodity as valuable as a beautiful young girl. Unless he really loves her, then it will take a little longer.
So there was a place to start. Find the dealer and you have a shot at finding Allie. A long shot, indeed, but you’ve seen them hit before.
Just to encourage him, Guidry threw a curve that didn’t, which the batter pulled right and put over the fence as the base runner trotted contemptuously home.
Neal consoled himself with chapter seven of The Making of the English Working Class and another scotch.
Neal spent a very boring day and a half
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