school voice.
“Yes?”
she said. “May I help you?”
She
lost a tiny trace of her poise when Carella flashed his buzzer. She read the
raised lettering on the shield, glanced at the photo on the plastic-encased
I.D. card, quickly regained her polished calm, and said coolly and
unemotionally, “Yes, what can I do for you?”
“We
wonder if you can tell us anything about the girl who wrote this check?”
Carella said. He reached into his jacket pocket, took out a folded photostat of
the check, unfolded it, and put it on the desk before the blonde. The blonde
looked at it casually.
“What
is the name?” she asked. “I can’t make it out.”
“Claudia
Davis.”
“D-A-V-I-S.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t
recognize the name,” the blonde said. “She’s not one of our regular customers.”
“But
she did make out a check to your salon,” Carella said. “She wrote this on July
seventh. Would you please check your records and find out why she was here and
who took care of her?”
“I’m
sorry,” the blonde said.
“What?”
“I’m
sorry, but we close at five o’clock, and this is the busiest time of the day
for us. I’m sure you can understand that. If you’d care to come back a little
later . . .”
“No, we
wouldn’t care to come back a little later,” Carella said. “Because if we came
back a little later, it would be with a search warrant and possibly a warrant
for the seizure of your books, and sometimes that can cause a little commotion
among the gossip columnists, and that kind of commotion might add to your
international renown a little bit. We’ve had a long day, miss, and this is
important, so how about it?”
“Of
course. We’re always delighted to cooperate with the police,” the blonde said
frigidly. “Especially when they’re so well mannered.”
“Yes,
we’re all of that,” Carella answered.
“Yes.
July seventh, did you say?”
“July
seventh.”
The
blonde left the desk and went into the back of the salon. A brunette came out
front and said, “Has Miss Marie left for the evening?”
“Who’s
Miss Marie?” Hawes asked.
“The
blond girl.”
“No.
She’s getting something for us.”
“That
white streak is very attractive,” the brunette said. “I’m Miss Olga.”
“How do
you do.”
“Fine,
thank you,” Miss Olga said. “When she comes back, would you tell her there’s
something wrong with one of the dryers on the third floor?”
“Yes, I
will,” Hawes said.
Miss
Olga smiled, waved, and vanished into the rear of the salon again. Miss Marie
reappeared not a moment later. She looked at Carella and said, “A Miss Claudia
Davis was here on July seventh. Mr. Sam worked on her. Would you like to talk
to him?”
“Yes,
we would.”
“Then
follow me, please,” she said curtly.
They
followed her into the back of the salon past women who sat with crossed legs,
wearing smocks, their heads in hair dryers.
“Oh, by
the way,” Hawes said, “Miss Olga said to tell you there’s something wrong with
one of the third-floor dryers.”
“Thank
you,’ Miss Marie said.
Hawes
felt particularly clumsy in this world of women’s machines. There was an air of
delicate efficiency about the place, and Hawes — six feet two inches
tall in his bare soles, weighing in at a hundred and ninety pounds — was
certain he would knock over a bottle of nail polish or a pail of hair rinse. As
they entered the second-floor salon, as he looked down that long line of
humming space helmets at women with crossed legs and what looked like barber’s
aprons covering their nylon slips, he became aware of a new phenomenon. The
women were slowly turning their heads inside the dryers to look at the white
streak over his left temple. He suddenly felt like a horse’s ass. For whereas
the streak was the legitimate result of a knifing — they had shaved
“Yes?”
she said. “May I help you?”
She
lost a tiny trace of her poise when Carella flashed his buzzer. She read the
raised lettering on the shield, glanced at the photo on the plastic-encased
I.D. card, quickly regained her polished calm, and said coolly and
unemotionally, “Yes, what can I do for you?”
“We
wonder if you can tell us anything about the girl who wrote this check?”
Carella said. He reached into his jacket pocket, took out a folded photostat of
the check, unfolded it, and put it on the desk before the blonde. The blonde
looked at it casually.
“What
is the name?” she asked. “I can’t make it out.”
“Claudia
Davis.”
“D-A-V-I-S.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t
recognize the name,” the blonde said. “She’s not one of our regular customers.”
“But
she did make out a check to your salon,” Carella said. “She wrote this on July
seventh. Would you please check your records and find out why she was here and
who took care of her?”
“I’m
sorry,” the blonde said.
“What?”
“I’m
sorry, but we close at five o’clock, and this is the busiest time of the day
for us. I’m sure you can understand that. If you’d care to come back a little
later . . .”
“No, we
wouldn’t care to come back a little later,” Carella said. “Because if we came
back a little later, it would be with a search warrant and possibly a warrant
for the seizure of your books, and sometimes that can cause a little commotion
among the gossip columnists, and that kind of commotion might add to your
international renown a little bit. We’ve had a long day, miss, and this is
important, so how about it?”
“Of
course. We’re always delighted to cooperate with the police,” the blonde said
frigidly. “Especially when they’re so well mannered.”
“Yes,
we’re all of that,” Carella answered.
“Yes.
July seventh, did you say?”
“July
seventh.”
The
blonde left the desk and went into the back of the salon. A brunette came out
front and said, “Has Miss Marie left for the evening?”
“Who’s
Miss Marie?” Hawes asked.
“The
blond girl.”
“No.
She’s getting something for us.”
“That
white streak is very attractive,” the brunette said. “I’m Miss Olga.”
“How do
you do.”
“Fine,
thank you,” Miss Olga said. “When she comes back, would you tell her there’s
something wrong with one of the dryers on the third floor?”
“Yes, I
will,” Hawes said.
Miss
Olga smiled, waved, and vanished into the rear of the salon again. Miss Marie
reappeared not a moment later. She looked at Carella and said, “A Miss Claudia
Davis was here on July seventh. Mr. Sam worked on her. Would you like to talk
to him?”
“Yes,
we would.”
“Then
follow me, please,” she said curtly.
They
followed her into the back of the salon past women who sat with crossed legs,
wearing smocks, their heads in hair dryers.
“Oh, by
the way,” Hawes said, “Miss Olga said to tell you there’s something wrong with
one of the third-floor dryers.”
“Thank
you,’ Miss Marie said.
Hawes
felt particularly clumsy in this world of women’s machines. There was an air of
delicate efficiency about the place, and Hawes — six feet two inches
tall in his bare soles, weighing in at a hundred and ninety pounds — was
certain he would knock over a bottle of nail polish or a pail of hair rinse. As
they entered the second-floor salon, as he looked down that long line of
humming space helmets at women with crossed legs and what looked like barber’s
aprons covering their nylon slips, he became aware of a new phenomenon. The
women were slowly turning their heads inside the dryers to look at the white
streak over his left temple. He suddenly felt like a horse’s ass. For whereas
the streak was the legitimate result of a knifing — they had shaved
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