“So?”
“So. When you’re on the U Street line, you gonna see the same people all the time, all doin’ the same kinds of things. The Seventh Street southbound is gonna be different. On the F Street bus, same thing, but maybe you see some of those old people from U—”
“What the hell are you talkin’ about?”
“Just this. You and the Italos, you been on the same bus all your lives. That bus you been on, the brakes are wearin’ down on it, katalavenis? I know, ’cause me, I been on the same kinda bus myself. But now I’m think-in’, maybe I’m gonna pull down on the cord, jump off at the next stop before it’s too late. Catch a new bus, I mean. You and that Italian friend of yours, you gotta get off that old bus, too.”
Karras lighted a cigarette. He shook out the match and tossed it on the tiled floor. The phone rang loudly from the front of the house.
“Like I said, Nick. I don’t know how to do that. I’d like to, but I just don’t know how.”
“Aaaah,” said Stefanos, waving a hand at Karras. “You just don’t know yourself, that’s all. You look in the mirror, you’re not seein’ the same man I see sittin’ here right in front of me.”
“Listen, Nick...”
Costa pushed halfway through the swinging doors. “Karras! It’s that Irish cop on the phone, lookin’ for you.”
“Boyle?”
“Boyle, Doyle, what the hell do I know? I’m busy out here, goddamn! Come on out here, malaka, and pick up the phone.”
Karras went out to the front of the house. He mussed Costa’s hair as he took the phone.
“Ella, vre bufo!” said Costa. He cursed Karras creatively as he walked away.
“Jimmy?”
“Yeah, Pete, it’s me.”
“Jimmy, I was gonna call you this morning myself, thank you for that tip on DeAngelo Ray.”
“Anything there?”
Karras dragged on his smoke. Lola had claimed that she had witnessed the murder; hop dream or no, he didn’t want her involved with the law just yet.
“Nothing yet,” said Karras. “But I’m still checking things out.”
“Glad I could help.”
“So what’s on your mind?”
“I got a movie question, Pete. You always knew the pictures inside out, what with you workin’ that usher job at the Hippodrome before the war.”
“What’s this about?”
“Nothin’, most likely. This street snitch of mine says he saw this fat sonofobitch ordering up a whore the other night from the night tender at the Hi-Hat. Says he ordered a big one, the same night that big hooker got herself sliced. Could be nothin’ at all—”
“Slow down, Jimmy. What night was that?”
“Friday.”
Karras felt his pulse quicken. “You talk to the bartender yet?”
“I was waitin’ to get somethin’ else straight first. That movie question I wanted to ask you about. Then I was gonna drop by the Hi-Hat tonight, when the tender comes on.”
“All right. Go ahead.”
“My snitch said the fat boy looked like a character actor he knew. Guy who always plays a heavy — at least he used to, before he croaked himself on account of he couldn’t live with the way he looked. Anyway, this actor was in a picture where he played a screwball cop, chasing after Victor Mature, who’s falsely accused of murdering some dame.”
“Who plays the dame?”
“What’s her name, she’s got this beautiful set of personalities—”
“Carole Landis.”
“Landis, right. Okay. Now, Betty Grable was in this picture, too, only not in a singin’ role. And that half-pint, Elisha Cook, always looks like you woke him out of a bad dream. Anyhow, this cop, he’s got a, whatd’ya-call-it, an obsession with Landis—”
“I Wake Up Screaming.”
“What?”
“I Wake Up Screaming. That’s the name of the picture.”
“And who played the cop?”
“Laird Cregar,” said Karras, tossing it right off. And then the name came off his lips again, because he saw the man who looked like Cregar in his own head. A dandy, and a fat one — the worst kind. Sitting in his chair, with his hands folded across his fat lap. And at the end of his feet, a pair of two-toned gibsons. Two-tones, brown-and-whites... Laird Cregar... Gearhart.
“I’ll be goddamned,” said Karras.
“Come again?”
“Nothing.”
“Yeah. I couldn’t think of that actor’s name to save my life. Who knows, maybe now I’ll get to the bottom of—”
“Jimmy, I don’t mean to cut you off. But I really gotta go. Thanks again for the tip with Ray.”
“Thank you, pal. Take care.”
“Yeah, you too.”
Karras racked the receiver. He walked back to the kitchen, took a last drag from his smoke, crushed it on the floor. He picked up his topcoat and got himself into it.
Stefanos cocked an eyebrow. “You hokay? You’re lookin’ a little stenichorimenos.”
“I’m fine. I gotta get to an appointment.”
“Go on, then. But you think about what I told you, acous?”
“Yeah, I hear. Catch you later.”
Karras limped toward the swinging doors. He turned around.
“Hey, Nick.”
“Yeah.”
“Just in case I don’t manage to get off that bus you were yakkin’ about—”
“Ella, re!”
“I’m serious. Listen to me — there’s an envelope in my locker, back in the warehouse.”
“Well?”
“You’ll know what to do.”
Stefanos looked in Karras’s eyes. “You’re on the schedule tomorrow. I’m gonna see you, right?”
“Sure, Nick.”
“Yasou, Panayoti.”
“Yasou, Niko. Adio.”
Karras walked from the kitchen. Stefanos watched him go.
35
Peter Karras hailed a cab and told the driver to point it downtown. He had no destination in mind but he wanted to get away horn Nick’s and he needed a place to think. He got out around 13th and H and gave the cabbie two bits and walked into a lunch counter called Dag-wood’s situated at the corner there, fronted by an inviting, brightly colored sign. Karras was not awfully hungry, but he was looking to come in from the cold while he sorted things out.
The gimmick in Dagwood’s was the sandwiches, Dagwood Sandwiches they called them, straight out of the funny pages’ strip. Karras had a seat at the counter and ordered a Cookie’s Delight without looking at the particulars.
“Anything to drink?” asked a man in a white paper hat.
“Co-cola,” said Karras.
A few minutes later the hash jockey brought out a chicken and bacon on white toast trimmed with lettuce, sliced tomatoes, and mayonnaise. The jockey dropped a platter of sweet gherkin chips, slaw, and pickled tomatoes on the side. Karras drank down half the cola at once, asked for a cup of coffee, got it. He sipped the coffee, which he recognized straight off as a product of National, the vendor over on 9th. Nick Stefanos used the same blend in his urns.
Karras downed the sandwich and got a refill on the coffee and lighted a cigarette. He smoked that one and then another. He stabbed the butt in the ashtray and signaled the guy behind the counter.
The hash jockey delivered the check. “Let’s see... that’s fifty cents for the sandwich and a nickel on the coffee. Plus your tax.”
Karras slapped a one onto the counter. “Keep it.”