Free The Last Dance by Ed McBain Page B

lying, it was all part of my fuckin cover.”
    A faint effluvial odor seemed to rise from Ollie whenever he became agitated, as he was now. Ignoring his own bodily emanations, he picked up the bagel and bit into it, his gnashing teeth unleashing a gush of cream cheese that spilled onto the right lapel of his jacket.
    â€œHas this guy got a name?” he asked. “The fag was in the card game with your hitter?”
    â€œHarpo,” Carella said.
    â€œWorks at the First Bap?” Ollie said.
    Both detectives looked at him.
    â€œOnly Harpo I know up here,” Ollie said. “I’m surprised he was in a card game, though.
If
it’s the same guy.”
    â€œHarpo what?” Meyer asked.
    â€œHis square handle is Walter Hopwell, don’t ask me how it got to be Harpo. I never knew he was queer till you guys mentioned it just now. Goes to show, don’t it? Ain’t you hungry?” he asked, and signaled to the waitress again. “Bring my friends here some more coffee,” he said, “they’re famous sleuths from a neighboring precinct. And I’ll have one of them croissants there.” He pronounced the word as if he were fluent in French, but it was only his stomach talking. “Thing I’m askin myself,” he said, “is how come a white stoolie is pals with a Negro fag?”
    Ollie liked using the word “Negro” every now and then because he believed it showed how tolerant he was, even though he realized it pissed off persons of color who preferred being called either blacks or African-Americans. But it had taken him long enough to learn how to say “Negro,” so if they wanted to keep changing it on him all the time, they could go fuck themselves.
    â€œWould he be at the church now?” Carella asked.
    â€œShould be. They got a regular office setup on the top floor.”
    â€œLet’s go,” Meyer said.
    â€œYou wanna start a race riot?” Ollie asked, and grinned as if he relished the prospect. “The First Bap’s listed as a sensitive location. I was you, I’d look up Mr. Hopwell in the phone book, go see him when he gets home from work.”
    â€œOur man’s leaving town tomorrow,” Carella said.
    â€œIn that case, darlings, let me finish my breakfast,” Ollie said. “Then we can all go to church.”
    Brown’s mother used to call her “The Barber’s Wife.” This was another name for the neighborhood gossip. The theory was that a guy went to get a haircut or a shave, he was captive in the barber’s chair for an hour or so, he told the barber everything on his mind. The barber went home that night, and over supper told his wife everything he’d heard from all his customers all day long. TheBarber’s Wife knew more about what was happening in any neighborhood than any cop on the beat. What Brown and Kling wanted to do now was find The Barber’s Wife in Andrew Hale’s building.
    There were six stories in the building, three tenants to each floor. When they got there that morning at a little past ten, most of the tenants were off to work. They knocked on six doors before they got an answer, and then another two before they found the woman they were looking for. Her apartment was on the same floor as Andrew Hale’s. She lived at the far end of the hall, in apartment 3C. When she asked them to come in, please, they hesitated on the door sill because she was cooking something that smelled unspeakably vile.
    The stench was coming from a big aluminum pot on the kitchen stove. When she lifted the lid to stir whatever was inside the pot, noxious clouds filled the air, and Kling caught sight of a bubbling liquid that appeared viscous and black. He wondered whether there was eye of newt in the pot. He wanted to go outside in the hall again, to throw up. But the woman invited them into a small living room where, mercifully, there was an open window that rendered the