then?”
“Sitting out front. There’s like a little parking space out front, near where the air hose is?”
“Was the car locked?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, were you the one who drove it into the bay and onto the lift?”
“Yeah.”
“So, was the car locked when you …?”
“Come to think of it, no.”
“You just got into it without having to unlock the door.”
“That’s right.”
“Was the key in the ignition?”
“No, I took it from the cabinet near the cash register.”
“And went to the car …”
“Yeah.”
“… and found it unlocked.”
“Right. I just got in and started it.”
“What time did you finish work on it?”
“Around four, four-thirty.”
“Then what?”
“Drove it off the lift, parked it outside again.”
“Did you lock it?”
“I think so.”
“Yes or no? Would you remember?”
“I’m pretty sure I did. I knew it was gonna be outside all night, I’m pretty sure I would’ve locked it.”
“What’d you do with the key after you locked it?”
“Put it back in the cabinet.”
“You weren’t there on Thursday night when Mr. Pratt brought the car in, were you?” Carella asked.
“No, I go home six o’clock. We don’t have any mechanics working the night shift. No gas jockeys, either. It’s all self-service
at night. There’s just the night manager there. We mostly sell gas to cabs at night. That’s about it.”
“What time did you get to work on Friday morning?”
“Seven-thirty. I work a long day.”
“Who was there when you got there?”
“The day manager and two gas jockeys.”
Carella took out the list Ralph had written for him.
“That would be Jimmy Jackson …”
“The manager, yeah.”
“Jose Santiago …”
“Yeah.”
“… and Abdul Sikhar.”
“Yeah, the Arab guy.”
“See any of
them
going in that Caddy?”
“No.”
“Hanging around it?”
“No. But I have to tell you the truth, I wasn’t like
watching
it every minute, you know? I had work to do.”
“Mr. Mondalvo, the gun we’re tracing was used in a homicide earlier tonight …”
“I didn’t know that,” Mondalvo said, and looked around quickly, as if even mere possession of this knowledge was dangerous.
“Yes,” Hawes said. “So if you know anything at all …”
“Nothing.”
“… about that gun, or who might have taken that gun from the car …”
“Nothing, I swear.”
“… then you should tell us now. Because otherwise …”
“I swear to God,” Mondalvo said, and made the sign of the cross.
“Otherwise you’d be an accessory after the fact,” Carella said.
“What does that mean?”
“It means you’d be as guilty as whoever pulled that trigger.”
“I don’t know who pulled any trigger.”
Both cops looked at him hard.
“I swear to God,” he said again. “I don’t know.”
Maybe they believed him.
4
T he three kids were all named Richard.
Because they were slick-as-shit preppies from a New England school, they called themselves Richard the First, Second, and
Third, after Richard the Lion-Hearted, Richard the son of Edward, and Richard who perhaps had his nephews murdered in the
Tower of London. They were familiar with these monarchs through an English history course they’d had to take back in their
sophomore year. The three Richards were now seniors. All three of them had been accepted at Harvard. They were each eighteen
years old, each varsity football heroes, all smart as hell, handsome as devils, and drunk as skunks. To coin a few phrases.
Like his namesake Richard Coeur de Lion, Richard Hopper—for such was his real name—was six feet tall and he weighed a hundred
and ninety pounds, and he had blond hair and blue eyes, just like the twelfth-century king. Unlike that fearless monarch,
however, Richard did not write poetry although he sang quite well. In fact, all three Richards were in the school choir. Richard
the First was the team’s star quarterback.
The real Richard
“Sitting out front. There’s like a little parking space out front, near where the air hose is?”
“Was the car locked?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, were you the one who drove it into the bay and onto the lift?”
“Yeah.”
“So, was the car locked when you …?”
“Come to think of it, no.”
“You just got into it without having to unlock the door.”
“That’s right.”
“Was the key in the ignition?”
“No, I took it from the cabinet near the cash register.”
“And went to the car …”
“Yeah.”
“… and found it unlocked.”
“Right. I just got in and started it.”
“What time did you finish work on it?”
“Around four, four-thirty.”
“Then what?”
“Drove it off the lift, parked it outside again.”
“Did you lock it?”
“I think so.”
“Yes or no? Would you remember?”
“I’m pretty sure I did. I knew it was gonna be outside all night, I’m pretty sure I would’ve locked it.”
“What’d you do with the key after you locked it?”
“Put it back in the cabinet.”
“You weren’t there on Thursday night when Mr. Pratt brought the car in, were you?” Carella asked.
“No, I go home six o’clock. We don’t have any mechanics working the night shift. No gas jockeys, either. It’s all self-service
at night. There’s just the night manager there. We mostly sell gas to cabs at night. That’s about it.”
“What time did you get to work on Friday morning?”
“Seven-thirty. I work a long day.”
“Who was there when you got there?”
“The day manager and two gas jockeys.”
Carella took out the list Ralph had written for him.
“That would be Jimmy Jackson …”
“The manager, yeah.”
“Jose Santiago …”
“Yeah.”
“… and Abdul Sikhar.”
“Yeah, the Arab guy.”
“See any of
them
going in that Caddy?”
“No.”
“Hanging around it?”
“No. But I have to tell you the truth, I wasn’t like
watching
it every minute, you know? I had work to do.”
“Mr. Mondalvo, the gun we’re tracing was used in a homicide earlier tonight …”
“I didn’t know that,” Mondalvo said, and looked around quickly, as if even mere possession of this knowledge was dangerous.
“Yes,” Hawes said. “So if you know anything at all …”
“Nothing.”
“… about that gun, or who might have taken that gun from the car …”
“Nothing, I swear.”
“… then you should tell us now. Because otherwise …”
“I swear to God,” Mondalvo said, and made the sign of the cross.
“Otherwise you’d be an accessory after the fact,” Carella said.
“What does that mean?”
“It means you’d be as guilty as whoever pulled that trigger.”
“I don’t know who pulled any trigger.”
Both cops looked at him hard.
“I swear to God,” he said again. “I don’t know.”
Maybe they believed him.
4
T he three kids were all named Richard.
Because they were slick-as-shit preppies from a New England school, they called themselves Richard the First, Second, and
Third, after Richard the Lion-Hearted, Richard the son of Edward, and Richard who perhaps had his nephews murdered in the
Tower of London. They were familiar with these monarchs through an English history course they’d had to take back in their
sophomore year. The three Richards were now seniors. All three of them had been accepted at Harvard. They were each eighteen
years old, each varsity football heroes, all smart as hell, handsome as devils, and drunk as skunks. To coin a few phrases.
Like his namesake Richard Coeur de Lion, Richard Hopper—for such was his real name—was six feet tall and he weighed a hundred
and ninety pounds, and he had blond hair and blue eyes, just like the twelfth-century king. Unlike that fearless monarch,
however, Richard did not write poetry although he sang quite well. In fact, all three Richards were in the school choir. Richard
the First was the team’s star quarterback.
The real Richard
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