“Mrs. Harris,” Carella said, “there are some questions we’d like to ask about your son and daughter-in—”
“Yes, certainly,” she said. “I’ll try to assist you as best I can.”
She was adopting the kind of formal speech many blacks used with whites, especially when the whites were in a position of authority. It was phony and fake, it denied the ethnicity that the phony and fake television sitcom shows simulated so well. To television-watchers, the sitcom shows were real. Never mind this shitty apartment in Diamondback. Whatever they saw on the tube was the reality. The real Depression family was the one on television, forget your own father who struggled along on five bucks a week in 1932. The television doctors were real, the television cops were real, everything on television was real except science fiction, and even that was more real than the moon shots.
So here they sat. Two real cops and a real black woman. One of the cops was Italian, but he didn’t wear a dirty raincoat, and he didn’t fumble for words and he didn’t pretend he was dumb. The other cop was bald, but he didn’t suck lollipops and he didn’t shave his pate clean and he didn’t dress like the mayor. The black woman wasn’t married to a man who owned a string of drycleaning stores, and she wasn’t dressed as if she were going to Bingo. She was embarrassed by the presence of the two men because they were white — even though her own daughter-in-law had been white. And she was intimidated by them because they were cops. All three sat there in real and uncomfortable proximity because someone real had murdered two other people. Otherwise, they might never have met each other in their entire lives. That was something television missed — the purely accidental nature of life itself. In televisionland, everything had a reason, everyone had a motive. Only cops knew that even Sherlock Holmes was total bullshit, and that all too often a knife in the back was put there senselessly. They were here to learn whether there’d indeed been a motive; they would not have been surprised to learn there hadn’t been the shred of one.
“Mrs. Harris,” Carella said, “did your son and daughter-in-law have many friends?”
“Some, I believe.” Still the phony speech. Carella guessed she would use the word “quite” within the next several sentences. “Quite” was a sure indication that someone was using language he or she did not ordinarily use.
“Would you know their names?”
“I did not know any of their friends personally.”
“Did they ever talk bitterly about any of them?”
“No, I never heard them say anything nasty about anyone.”
“Would you know if they’d argued recently with—”
“I believe they got along quite well with everyone.”
“What we’re trying to find out is whether anyone—”
“Yes, I know. But you see... they were blind.”
Again the blindness. Again the blindness as a reason for denying the fact that they’d both been murdered. They were blind, therefore they could not have been brutally slain. But they had been.
“Mrs. Harris,” Carella said, “please try to think beyond their blindness. I know it’s difficult to believe anyone would harm two helpless—”
“But someone did,” Mrs. Harris said.
“Yes. That’s exactly my—”
“Yes,” she said.
“Who, Mrs. Harris? Can you think of anyone at all who might have wanted to harm them?”
“No one.”
“Were there any problems either of them were having? Did Jimmy or your daughter-in-law ever come to you for advice of a personal nature?”
“No, never.”
“Were they happy together, would you say?”
“They seemed very happy.”
“Did Jimmy have another woman?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“I would have heard about it.”
“How about Isabel?”
“She was devoted to him.”
“Did they visit you often?”
“They came at least once a month. And on holidays, Christmas Thanksgiving — they were supposed to come here next week. I already ordered the turkey,” she said. “Ten pounds. There was going to be six of us — Jimmy and his wife, my daughter Chrissie and her boyfriend, and a man’s been coming around to see me.” Her speech had suddenly changed. Talk of the Thanksgiving holiday next week, of the homely preparations for it, had jerked her back into her own familiar speech pattern. These two white detectives might not be able to understand or to share her blackness, but at least they understood Thanksgiving. White or black, in America everyone understood turkey drumsticks and pumpkin pie, sweet potatoes and a word of grace.
“When they came to visit—”
“Yes,” she said, and nodded. She was thinking they would not come to visit ever again. The knowledge was plain on her face; it turned her amber eyes to ashes.
“Did anyone in the neighborhood comment about the nature of their marriage?”
“What do you mean?”
“That she was white.”
“No. Not to me, anyway. I guess there were some figured Jimmy had no cause marryin a white girl. But they wouldn’t dare say nothing to me about it.”
“How did you feel about it, Mrs. Harris?”
“I loved that girl with all my heart.”
“Did you know you’re the contingent beneficiary of your son’s insurance policy?”
“After Isabel, yes,” she said. “The second beneficiary.” She shook her head. “Bless their hearts,” she said.
“Twenty-five thousand dollars,” Carella said, and watched her.
“Bless their hearts,” she said again.
“Mrs. Harris,” Carella said, “this man you say you’ve been seeing... may I ask you his name?”
“Charles Clarke.”
“How long have you known him?”
“About six months.”
“How serious is your relationship?”
“Well... he’s asked me to marry him.”
“Have you accepted?”
“No. Not yet.”
“Do you think you might marry him?”
“I might.”
“Have you told him this?”
“I told him maybe after Chrissie was out of the house. She’s about to get married herself next year, the weddin’s set for June, that’s when her boyfriend’ll be graduating high school.”
“How old is she?” Carella asked.
“Chrissie’s seventeen.”
“And you told Mr. Clarke you might marry him in June?”
“After Chrissie’s out of the house, yes.”
“What’d he think about that?”
“Well, he’s in a hurry, same as any man.”
“What sort of work does he do?”
“He’s a fight manager.”
“Who does he manage?”
“Fighter named Black Jackson. You ever hear of him?”
“No, I’m sorry.”
“He fights at St. Joe’s all the time. St. Joseph’s Arena.”
“Mrs. Harris,” Carella said, “I hope this won’t offend you.” He hesitated. “Did you and Mr. Clarke ever discuss money?”
“Sometimes.”
“Did he know that you were the contingent beneficiary of a twenty-five-thousand-dollar insurance policy?”