Free Fat Ollie's Book by Ed McBain Page A

under the bridge near the drive, and the next day you were breaking a car window because you saw a brown leather dispatch case on the back seat and you figured maybe there was dope inside it.
    But, you know…
    It all worked out in the long run, didn’t it?
    Here in Emilio’s hands was the key to millions of dollars. In a way, this was better than winning the lottery. All he had to do was read Detective Watts’s report again and again, backwards and forwards, decipher which code names in the book stood for which real place names in the city, and he would know where the gang in the book had stashed what amounted to $2,700,000 in diamonds before they locked poor Olivia in the basement with a run in her pantyhose, which to tell the truth excited Emilio to read about a girl’s underwear so honestly.
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    THE ELECTRICAL GUY’S name was Peter Handel.
    The rain had stopped and he was playing chess in the park outside Ramsey U downtown when Ollie found him. Both Handel and his chess partner were people who, in Ollie’s estimation, could have stood losing a few pounds. Like giant pandas, the two men hunched over the stone-topped table, pondering their next moves. Not wishing to break their hugely intense concentration, Ollie waited a moment before flashing the tin and introducing himself.
    â€œI’d like to talk to you privately, Mr. Handel,” he said. “If your friend here doesn’t mind.”
    â€œI’m three moves away from checkmate,” his friend said.
    Ollie wondered how chess players knew such things.
    â€œTake a walk around the block,” he suggested. “It’s turning into a nice day.”
    â€œHe’ll figure out my game plan,” the man complained, and waddled off grudgingly.
    Ollie took his place at the chess table. He and Handel sat in dappled sunshine. Women strolled by pushing baby carriages. Across the street, young dealers were selling dope to college students. Ollie wondered where the hell all the cops were in this city.
    â€œI understand you were in the booth up there when Henderson got shot,” Ollie said.
    â€œYeah,” Handel said.
    Over a plaid sports shirt, Handel was wearing a brown woolen cardigan with darker brown buttons, what Ollie’s sister called a “candy-store sweater.” Combined with wide-waled brown corduroy trousers, the ill-fitting sweater made him look exceptionally stout. Ollie wondered why such people didn’t go on diets.
    â€œTell me what you saw,” he said.
    â€œI was following him from stage left, the spot on him all the way. Somebody shot him just as he reached the podium.”
    â€œWhere’d the shots come from, do you know?”
    â€œStage right.”
    â€œWhat does that mean, stage right, stage left?”
    â€œThe person’s right or left. The person standing on stage. His right or left. Looking out at the audience.”
    â€œSo, if he was approaching the podium from the left…”
    â€œ His left, yes.”
    â€œYou’re saying somebody fired at him as he approached.”
    â€œSomebody fired from stage right, yes.”
    â€œHow many shots did you hear?”
    â€œQuite a few.”
    â€œFive, six?”
    â€œAt least.”
    â€œDid you see anyone sitting in the balcony?”
    â€œI wasn’t looking at the balcony. I was looking at the stage. My job was to keep that spot on him.”
    â€œAre you sure those shots didn’t come from the balcony?”
    â€œI’m positive. I saw the muzzle flashes.”
    â€œBut not the shooter?”
    â€œNot the shooter. Just the muzzle flashes. And then he was falling. I kept the spot on him as he fell. Those were my instructions. Keep the spot on him. I kept the spot on him till somebody yelled for me to turn it off.”
    â€œWho was that, would you know?”
    â€œNo, sir, I would not. I guess it was somebody running the show. So I turned it off. And then somebody turned