87th Precinct - Nocturne - 87th Precinct - Nocturne Part 49
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87th Precinct - Nocturne Part 49

"Maybe I ought to get shot, huh?"

"Bite your tongue."

They sipped at their coffees. Two Sanil

Department men came in and took stools

Outside the deli, their orange snowplows sat at the curb. The night was starless. Everything was black outside, except for the orange plows.

Danny reached his party. He was leaning in close to the mouthpiece, talking, nodding, even gesticulating.

' limped back to the table some five minutes later.

"It'll cost you," he said.

"How much?" Hawes asked.

"Two bills for me, three for the guy you'll be talking to."

"Who's that?"

"Guy who had a bird fighting in Riverhead

Friday night. There was also supposed to be a fight

Bethtown, but it got canceled. Big Asian there, this ain't only a Spanish thing, you know."

"Where in Riverhead?" Hawes asked."

"The bread, please," Danny said, and rolled thumb against his forefinger.

Hawes looked at Carella. Carella nodded.

took out his wallet and pulled two hundred-dollar bill out from it.

Danny accepted the money.

"Gracias," he said. I'll take you up there, introduce you to Luis.

Actually, I'm surprised you don't know about this already."

"How come?" Carella asked.

"The place got busted Friday night. That's the only reason he's willing to talk to you."

Ramon Moreno was the doorman who'd been on duty outside the hotel on Sunday morning, when the tall blond man delivered the envelope. They had telephoned him at the Club Durango, down in the Quarter, and he was just packing up to go home when they got there at a quarter past two.

Ramon was a musician. He worked days at the hotel to pay the bills, but his love was the B-flat tenor saxophone, and he played whatever gig came his way whenever. He told Priscilla who he knew way a fellow musician that he'd played the Durango three nights running so far, and he was hoping it would turn into a steady gig. The club was Mexican, and they played all the old standby stuff like "El Jarabe de la Botella" and "La Chachalaca" and the ever-popular and corny "Cielito Lindo," but occasionally they got a hip crowd in and could cut loose on some real jazz with a Hispanic tint. When he wasn't playing the Durango, he did weddings and anniversary parties and birthday parties... "A girl's fifteenth birthday is a big thing in the Spanish culture..." and whatever else might come along. He even played a barmitzvah a couple of weeks ago.

All of which is very fucking interesting, Georgie thought.

The way he got to be a tenor player was strange, Ramon said. He used to play the alto, instrument better suited to his size in that he was five feet six inches tall. At the time, he was playing in a band with a four-piece sax section, and one of the playing tenor was this big tall guy, six-three, which was appropriate because the tenor is a large instrument, not as big as your baritone sax, but good-sized horn, you understand? Then one time during rehearsal, they switched instruments just for fun, and discovered they were better suited to horns they'd borrowed, the short guy, Ramon himself, blowing this tenor sax almost bigger than he is, and the tall guy, Julius, playing the smaller alto, which looked almost like a toy saxophone in his hands.

All of which is even more interesting, thought.

"About yesterday morning," Priscilla said,

to the chase.

"Yeah," Ramon said, sounding a bit

"What did you want to know?"

"Tall blond man wearing a dark blue coat and a scarf. Walked in around eleven, walked out a couple of minutes later. Did you see him?"

"Not when he walked in," Ramon said. He still sounded miffed, Georgie thought. wondering why his dumb story about a tall guy playing a small sax and a short guy playing a big one wasn't quite wowing the crowds here in the big city. Hell with you, Georgie thought. Just don't tell anything'll lead her to the blond guy.

"But you did see him," Priscilla said.

"Yeah, when he came out. Cause he asked me to get him a cab."

"What'd he sound like?" "Sound like?" "His accent."

"Oh. Yeah. That's right." "Was it a Spanish accent?" "No.

Definitely not."

"He didn't speak Spanish to you, did he?"

"No. It was English. But with an accent. Like you say."

"Russian?"

"Italian, maybe. I'm not sure." "Did you get him a cab?" "Yeah."

"Do you know where he was going?" "As it happens, yes," Ramon said.

They waited breathlessly.

Master of suspense, Georgie thought.

"The doormen at the Powell are trained to ask our guests their destinations, and to relay this information to the cabdriver," Ramon said, as if reciting from the hotel's brochure. "Many of our guests are foreigners," he said. "They will have an address scribbled on a piece of paper, and will have no idea where that address might be.

Japanese people, for example. Arabs. Germans. We try to help them out. As a Courtesy," he said. "These people who can barely speak English."

But the blond guy did speak English, Georgie said.

"So where was he going?" Priscilla said impatiently.

Georgie hoped he wouldn't remember.

"I remember because I played there once," he said.

"Where?" Priscilla insisted.