"I don't know his name."

"You sold a stolen gun to a man you didn't even know?"

"We were talking, he said he needed a gun. So I

happened to have a gun. So I sold it to him."

"You sold him a gun you'd just stolen."

"I had just lost my best friend in the whole world."

"What's that got to do with stealing a gun and selling it?"

"I also lost ten thousand dollars."

"Ah. So how much did you get for the gun?" "Two hundred and fifty dollars."

"That's cutting your losses, all right," Hawes said. "My greatest loss was Diablo."

"What'd he look like?" Carella asked.

"He was a white bird, large in the chest, with. "The man who bought the gun."

"Oh. He was a tall blond guy."

"Blond guy with a blue coat and a red scarf, Anna said. "Tall blond guy. Sure. Matter of fact was in here twice."

This was beginning to get interesting. Georgie hoped it wouldn't get too interesting. "The first time was Friday night around midnight Anna said. "He was meeting a guy named Bernie comes in here all the time. Scar on his right think he's a bookie."

"The blond guy?" Tony asked.

"No, Bernie."

"Did you happen to get his name?" asked Priscilla "I just told you.

Bernie." "I mean the blond guy."

"No, I didn't. Matter of fact, the first time I laid eyes on him was Friday night."

"When was the next time he came in?" "Yesterday," Anna said. "Around twelve noon. with Bernie again. They sat right over there," she pointed to a table. "Money changed hands. least yesterday, it did.

On Friday, they were talking. He seemed very angry."

"The blond guy?" Priscilla asked.

"No, Bernie."

"He was angry yesterday?"

"No, he was angry Friday. Yesterday, he was all smiles."

"So as I understand this," Georgie said, interpreting for Priscilla, "on Friday night the blond guy and Bernie the bookie just sat over there and talked, and Bernie was pissed off about something, is that correct?"

"Yes," Anna said.

"But money changed hands yesterday and Bernie the bookie was all smiles, Is that also correct?" "Matter of fact, yes," Anna said.

"You know what this indicates to me?" Georgie said.

"What?" Priscilla asked.

"A man paying off a marker."

"That's what it looks like to me, too," Tony said, nodding sagely.

Priscilla nodded, too, and then turned back to Anna. "But you never got the blond guy's name," she said. "Matter of fact, I didn't" Anna said.

"And you don't know Bernie's last name."

"Just his first name."

In which case, let us be on our way, Georgie thought. "But maybe Marvin knows," Anna said. Matter of fact, he did.

Three black guys who looked like they were homeless bums were warming themselves up around a fire in an oil drum on the corner of Ainsley and Eleventh. Ollie felt like arresting them. He was cold and he was tired

after a full eight-hour shift, not to mention here and there around the city afterward trying to get a line on who iced the hooker and her two black Three-thirty in the fuckin morning, he really felt like arresting them.

"You guys," he said, approaching the blazing dram. "You know arson's against the law?"

"Nobody committin no arson here, suh," one of the men said. He was a grizzled old bum looked like a black guy in the prison picture, whatever it was The Scrimshaw Reduction, about this black guy used to drive around this old Jewish southern before he got sent up. The old bum standing with hands stretched out to the fire looked just like that in the picture. The other two looked like black bums you'd see standing around any three-thirty in the morning. Nobody looked They all just kept staring into the flames, reaching toward them.

"So is this your usual corner here?" Ollie asked. "This lovely garden spot here?"

He was being sarcastic. This was an unusual stretch of Ainsley Avenue. Because of the storm and because this was Diamondback, nobody gave a damn about refuse collection anyway overflowing garbage cans stood against tenement walls and marauding rats the size c were boldly shredding stacks of black plastic bags noise of the rats was frightening in itself. crackle of the fire in the oil drum, Ollie could hear their incessant squealing and squeaking scratching. He felt like shooting them.

"Everybody hard of hearing here?" he asked. "This's our regular corner here, yessuh," the one from the Scrimshaw picture said. Ollie didn't know who he hated most, the ones who bowed and scraped or the ones with attitude. There wasn't much attitude around this fire tonight. Just three cold homeless bums afraid to go crawl into their cardboard boxes lest one of their brothers did them in the night.

"You happen to be here Saturday night around this time?" he asked.

"Little later, actually?"

None of the men said anything.

"Hey!" Ollie shouted. "Anybody listening to me here?"

"What time would that've been, suh?" the older bum said. Doing his Uncle Tom bit for the benefit of the dumb honkie cop.

"This would've been six o'clock in the morning, suh," Ollie said, mimicking him. "This would've been a taxicab letting out a white blonde in a short skirt and a red fur jacket who was being met by three white guys in blue parkas and a black guy in a black leather jacket.

So were you here at that hour, suh, and did you happen to see them?"

"We was here," he said, "and we happen to see em."