"Nothing. We met in a club, exchanged a few words . . ."

"Exchanged some cash, too, didn't you?" The room went silent. So did Himmel.

"But we're willing to forget that," Carella said. "Then whatever I say is hypothetical," Himmel said. "Let's hear it first."

"First let's understand it's hypothetical."

"Okay, it's hypothetical," Carella said.

"Then let's say the man is a big gambler. Bets on any event happening."

"Like?"

"Boxing, baseball, football, hockey, basketball, a man for all seasons.

My guess is he bets on the nags, too,

but at one of the off-track parlors."

"Okay, he's a gambler."

"No, you weren't listening. He's a big gambler. And he's usually in over his head. Wins occasionally, but most of the time he doesn't know what he's doing. Fuckin grease ball can't tell the difference between baseball and football, how would he know how to bet?

I give him the odds, he picks whatever sounds..." "What do you mean, grease ball Hawes asked. "He's Italian."

"From Italy, you mean?" Carella said.

"Of course from Italy. Where would Italians come from, Russia?"

"You mean he's really Italian," Carella said.

"Yeah, really really Italian," Himmel said. "What,s with you?"

"Never mind."

"You're surprised he's Italian, is that it? Cause he's blond?"

"No, I'm not surprised."

"He also has blue eyes, does that surprise you, "Nothing ever surprises me," Carella said weari]. "You expect a wop to have black curly hair and eyes, you expect him to be a short fat guy. This one's six-two, he weighs at least about one-ninety. Handsome can be. Dumb Buck doesn't even know what the

Bowl is, he bets a fortune on Pittsburgh, loses his "When was this?"

"Two Sundays ago. Hypothetically."

"So, hypothetically, what was he doing in The Bar this past Friday night?"

"Hypothetically, he was telling his bookie, in broken English, that he didn't have the twenty large to pay him."

"Is that what he bet on the Steelers?"

"Twenty big ones. Gave him a a-half-point spread. Cowboys took it by sixteen." "So what happened last Friday night?"

"The bookie told him to come up with the bread Sunday morning or he was going to be swimmin with the goddamn fishes."

"How'd he react to that?"

"Said he had to make a phone call."

"Did he?"

"Yeah, from the phone right there on the wall." "What time was this?"

"Around one-fifteen in the morning. A few minutes after the cops raided the Alhambra' the club up the street. Where they hold the cockfights."

"How'd you know that?"

"One of the owners came in. His bird had just got chewed up, he was practically weeping at the table. He told me he had a gun, he was thinking of shooting himself."

"His name wouldn't be Jose Santiago, would it?" This city was full of mind readers.

"Yeah" Himmel said. "How'd you know that?"

"Lucky guess," Hawes said. "What time did he come in?"

"Santiago? Eleven-thirty, twelve o'clock. Right after the bust went down. I was sitting there waiting for Larry."

"Who's that?"

"The guy owed the twenty."

"I thought you didn't know his name."

"That was before everything got hypothetical." "Larry what?"

"It's Lorenzo, but everybody calls him Larry.," "Lorenzo what?"

"I can't even pronounce it."

"I'm telling you I can't. I wrote it down first time he placed a bet, it's one of those fuckin wop tongue twisters."

Carella sighed.

"Where'd you write it down?" "On the slip." "The betting slip?"

"No, a lady's pink slip, lace-trimmed."

The detectives looked at him. He knew he was a smart-ass. He grinned. Nobody grinned back. shrugged.

"Yes, the betting slip," he said. "Long since "Never wrote the name down again?"