lemonade.
“Mr. Mondalvo?” Hawes asked.
Mondalvo kept sipping his drink.
“Police,” Hawes said, and flipped a leather case open to show his shield.
There are various ways to express cool when responding to a police presence. One is to feign total indifference to the fact
that cops are actually
here
and may be about to cause trouble. Like “I’ve been through this a hundred times before, man, and it don’t faze me, so what
can I do for you?” Another is to display indignation. As, for example, “Do you realize who I am? How dare you embarrass me
this way in a public place?” The third is to pretend complete ignorance. “Cops? Are you
really
cops? Gee. What business on earth could cops possibly have with
me
?”
Mondalvo turned slowly on his stool.
“Hi,” he said, and smiled.
They had seen it all and heard it all.
This time around, it would be pleasant indifference.
“Mr. Mondalvo,” Hawes said, “we understand you worked on the engine of a Cadillac belonging to a Mr. Rodney Pratt on Friday,
would you remember having done that?”
“Oh, sure,” Mondalvo said. “Listen, do you think we’d be more comfortable at a table? Something to drink? A Coke? A ginger
ale?”
He slid off the stood to reveal his full height of five-six, five-seven, shorter than he’d looked while sitting, a little
man with broad shoulders and a narrow waist, sporting a close-cropped haircut and mustache. Carella wondered if he’d acquired
the weight lifter’s build in prison, and then realized he was prejudging someone who was, after all, gainfully employed as
an automobile mechanic. They moved to a table near the dance floor. Hawes noticed that the club was discreetly and gradually
beginning to clear out, people slipping into their overcoats and out the door. If a bust was in the cards, nobody wanted to
be here when it came down. Some foolhardy couples, enjoying the music and maybe even the sense of imminent danger, flitted
past on the dance floor, trying to ignore them, but everyone knew The Law was here, and eyes sideswiped them with covert glances.
“We’ll get right to the point,” Carella said. “Did you happen to notice a gun in the glove compartment of that car?”
“I didn’t go in the glove compartment,” Mondalvo said. “I had to put in a new engine, why would I go in the glove compartment?”
“I don’t know. Why would you?”
“Right. Why would I? Is that what this is about?”
“Yes.”
“Because I already told Jimmy I didn’t know anything about that guy’s gun.”
“Jimmy Jackson?”
“Yeah, the day manager. He asked me did I see a gun, I told him
what
gun? I didn’t see no gun.”
“But you did work on the Caddy all day Friday.”
“Yeah. Well not
all
day. It was a three-, four-hour job. What it was, somebody put styrene in the crankcase.”
“So we understand.”
“Styrene is what they use to make fiberglass. It’s this oily shit you can buy at any marine or boat supply store, people use
it to patch their fiberglass boats. But if you want to fuck up a guy’s engine, all you do you mix a pint of it with three,
four quarts of oil and pour it in his crankcase. The car’ll run maybe fifty, sixty miles, a hundred max, before the oil breaks
down and the engine binds. Pratt’s engine was shot. We had to order a new one for him. Somebody didn’t like this guy so much,
to do something like that to his car, huh? Maybe that’s why he packed a gun.”
Maybe, Carella was thinking.
“Anybody else go near that car while you were working on it?”
“Not that I saw.”
“Give us some approximate times here,” Hawes said. “When did you start working on it?”
“After lunch sometime Friday. I had a Buick in needed a brake job, and then I had a Beamer had something wrong with the electrical
system. I didn’t get to the Caddy till maybe twelve-thirty, one o’clock. That’s when I put it up on the lift.”
“Where was it until
“Mr. Mondalvo?” Hawes asked.
Mondalvo kept sipping his drink.
“Police,” Hawes said, and flipped a leather case open to show his shield.
There are various ways to express cool when responding to a police presence. One is to feign total indifference to the fact
that cops are actually
here
and may be about to cause trouble. Like “I’ve been through this a hundred times before, man, and it don’t faze me, so what
can I do for you?” Another is to display indignation. As, for example, “Do you realize who I am? How dare you embarrass me
this way in a public place?” The third is to pretend complete ignorance. “Cops? Are you
really
cops? Gee. What business on earth could cops possibly have with
me
?”
Mondalvo turned slowly on his stool.
“Hi,” he said, and smiled.
They had seen it all and heard it all.
This time around, it would be pleasant indifference.
“Mr. Mondalvo,” Hawes said, “we understand you worked on the engine of a Cadillac belonging to a Mr. Rodney Pratt on Friday,
would you remember having done that?”
“Oh, sure,” Mondalvo said. “Listen, do you think we’d be more comfortable at a table? Something to drink? A Coke? A ginger
ale?”
He slid off the stood to reveal his full height of five-six, five-seven, shorter than he’d looked while sitting, a little
man with broad shoulders and a narrow waist, sporting a close-cropped haircut and mustache. Carella wondered if he’d acquired
the weight lifter’s build in prison, and then realized he was prejudging someone who was, after all, gainfully employed as
an automobile mechanic. They moved to a table near the dance floor. Hawes noticed that the club was discreetly and gradually
beginning to clear out, people slipping into their overcoats and out the door. If a bust was in the cards, nobody wanted to
be here when it came down. Some foolhardy couples, enjoying the music and maybe even the sense of imminent danger, flitted
past on the dance floor, trying to ignore them, but everyone knew The Law was here, and eyes sideswiped them with covert glances.
“We’ll get right to the point,” Carella said. “Did you happen to notice a gun in the glove compartment of that car?”
“I didn’t go in the glove compartment,” Mondalvo said. “I had to put in a new engine, why would I go in the glove compartment?”
“I don’t know. Why would you?”
“Right. Why would I? Is that what this is about?”
“Yes.”
“Because I already told Jimmy I didn’t know anything about that guy’s gun.”
“Jimmy Jackson?”
“Yeah, the day manager. He asked me did I see a gun, I told him
what
gun? I didn’t see no gun.”
“But you did work on the Caddy all day Friday.”
“Yeah. Well not
all
day. It was a three-, four-hour job. What it was, somebody put styrene in the crankcase.”
“So we understand.”
“Styrene is what they use to make fiberglass. It’s this oily shit you can buy at any marine or boat supply store, people use
it to patch their fiberglass boats. But if you want to fuck up a guy’s engine, all you do you mix a pint of it with three,
four quarts of oil and pour it in his crankcase. The car’ll run maybe fifty, sixty miles, a hundred max, before the oil breaks
down and the engine binds. Pratt’s engine was shot. We had to order a new one for him. Somebody didn’t like this guy so much,
to do something like that to his car, huh? Maybe that’s why he packed a gun.”
Maybe, Carella was thinking.
“Anybody else go near that car while you were working on it?”
“Not that I saw.”
“Give us some approximate times here,” Hawes said. “When did you start working on it?”
“After lunch sometime Friday. I had a Buick in needed a brake job, and then I had a Beamer had something wrong with the electrical
system. I didn’t get to the Caddy till maybe twelve-thirty, one o’clock. That’s when I put it up on the lift.”
“Where was it until
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