Read Online Fat Ollie's Book by Ed McBain - Free Book Online

still ridged with scar tissue, Foster at the age of forty-nine and fast approaching fifty still looked as if he could knock your average contender on his ass in thirty seconds flat. He extended his right hand the moment the detectives entered the rectory. Grinning, he said, “Detective Carella! Nice to see you again.”
    The men shook hands. Carella was mindful of the fact that the last time he was here, Foster hadn’t been at all happy to see him.
    â€œThis is Detective Kling,” he said.
    â€œNice to meet you,” Kling said.
    â€œI know why you’re here,” Foster said. “You’re shaking the tree, am I right?”
    â€œWe’re here because the last time you and Henderson debated, it ended in a fist fight,” Carella said.
    â€œWell, that’s not quite true,” Foster said.
    â€œIt’s our understanding of what happened.”
    â€œOh, we came to blows, all right, that part of it is most certainly true,” Foster said, grinning. “It’s the ‘debate’ part I would challenge. I wouldn’t exactly call his diatribe a debate.”
    Kling was trying to decide whether he liked the man or not. He had become overly sensitive in his dealings with black people ever since he’d begun living with a black woman. What he tried to do was see all black people through Sharyn’s eyes. In that way, all the color bullshit disappeared. The first thing he’d learned from her was that she despised the label “African-American.” The second thing he’d learned was that she liked to kiss with her eyes open. Sharyn Cooke was a medical doctor and a Deputy Chief in the Police Department, but Kling never saluted her.
    He guessed he liked the mischievous gleam in Foster’s eyes. He knew the man was a troublemaker, but sometimes troublemakers were good if they raked up the right kind of trouble. He was wondering how Lester Henderson had managed to survive a fist fight with the man who’d once been Rhino Jones. Henderson’s pictures in this morning’s paper showed him as a slight man with narrow shoulders and the sort of haircut every politician on television sported, a nonpartisan trim that Kling personally called “The Trent Lott Cut.” Weren’t the Reverend Foster’s hamlike fists registered as deadly weapons? Or had he pulled his punches? And when, exactly, had that boxing match taken place, anyway?
    Reading his mind, Carella said, “Tell us about that fight, Reverend Foster.”
    â€œMost people call me Gabe,” Foster said. “It was hardly what I’d call a fight, either. A fight is where two people exchange punches with the idea of knocking somebody unconscious. That is what a fight is all about. Or even killing the other person—which I understand might be a sensitive subject at the moment, considering what happened to that S.O.B.” Foster grinned again. “A week ago Sunday, Lester threw a punch at me, which I sidestepped, and I shoved out at him, which caused him to fall on his ass, and that was the end of that. Photo op for all the cameras in town, but no decision.”
    â€œWhy’d he punch you, Gabe?” Kling asked.
    â€œHe did not punch me, per se, he tried to punch me. I saw it coming all the way from North Dakota, and was out of the way before it was even a thought.”
    â€œWhy’d he try to punch you?” Kling asked.
    â€œAre you the brother dating Sharyn Cooke?” Foster said.
    â€œBrother” was not a word Kling might have used. Neither was “dating.”
    â€œWhat’s that got to do with the price of fish?” he asked.
    â€œJust wondered. I used to know Sharyn’s mother. Cleaning lady up here in Diamondback. She helped around the church every now and then. When I was just starting out.”
    â€œWhy’d Henderson try to punch you?” Kling asked. Third time around. Maybe he’d get lucky.
    â€œGee, I