"I was with the Vice Squad in Philly."
"So what happened? Didn't you like the work?"
"It was good work."
"So how come you ain't doing it no more?"
"They fired me."
"Why?"
"Who knows?" he said, and shrugged.
"Can't stay away from the job, though, huh?"
"What does that mean?"
"Well, here you are, Howie."
"Just thought I'd drop by."
"You been here before?"
First leading question she'd asked him.
"Couple of times."
"Guess you like it, huh?"
"It's okay."
"Come on, Howie, tell me the truth." Teasing him now. "You really dig the girls here, don't you?"
"They're okay. Some of them."
"Which ones?"
"Some of them. Lots of these girls, you know, they're in this against their will, you know."
"Oh, sure."
"I mean, they were forced into it, you know."
"You sure you were a Vice cop, Howie?"
"Yes."
"I mean, you sound almosthuman ."
"Well, it's true, you know. A lot of these girls would get out of it if they knew how."
"Tell me the secret. How do I get out of it, Howie?"
"There are ways."
A big, wiry, gray-haired guy walked over from the bar. Had to be in his mid-fifties, grizzled look, sailor's swagger. Wearing jeans and white sneakers, blue T-shirt, gold crucifix hanging on a chain outside the shirt, metal-buttoned denim jacket open over it. Right arm in a plaster cast and a sling. Shaggy gray eyebrows, knife scar angling downward through the right brow and partially closing the right eye. Brown eyes. Thick nose broken more than once. Blue watch cap tilted onto the back of his head. Shock of gray hair hanging on his forehead. He pulled out a chair, sat, and said, "Buzz off, Preacher."
Howie looked at him.
"Buzz off, I wanna talk to the lady."
"Hey mister," Eileen said, "we're hellip;"
"You hear me, Preacher? Move!"
Howie shoved back his chair. He glared angrily at the guy with the broken arm, and then walked across the bar and out into the street. Annie was already up and after him.
"Thanks a lot," Eileen said. "You just cost me hellip;"
"Shanahan," he said.
She looked at him.
"Put your hand on my knee, talk nice."
The midgets came in at a minute before eleven.
Shotgun Zuckerman was ready to close the store.
They came in yelling "Trick or treat!"
Alice opened fire at once.
("It was us taking all the risk," she said at the Q A later. "Never mind what Quentin told us. If anybody pegged us for little people, we were finished. It was better to kill them. Easier, too.")
Zuckerman didn't even have a chance to reach for the shotgun. He went down dead in the first volley.
Meyer and Carella broke out of the stockroom the moment they heard the bell over the door sound. By the time they came through the curtain shielding the front of the store from the back, Zuckerman was already dead.
In the station wagon outside, the blonde began honking the horn.
"Police!" Meyer shouted, and Alice opened up with a second volley.
This wasn't a cops-and-robbers movie, this was real life. Neither of the detectives got off a shot.
Meyer went down with a bullet through his arm and another through his shoulder.
Carella went down with a bullet in his chest. No tricks. Real blood. Real pain.
Three of the midgets ran out of the store without even glancing at the cash register. The only reason Alice ran out after them, without first killing the two cops on the floor, was that she thought there might be more cops in the place.
This came out during the Q A at ten minutes past two on the morning of All Hallows' Day.
CHAPTER 9
The more Parker presented himself as afake cop, the more he began feeling like areal cop. Everybody at the party kept telling him he could pass for a detective anywhere in the city. Everybody told him his shield and his gun, a .38 Smith Wesson Detective Special, looked very authentic. One of the women mdash;a sassy brunette dressed as a Las Vegas cigarette girl, in a flared black skirt and a flimsy top, high-heeled black shoes, and seamed silk stockings mdash;wanted to hold the gun but he told her cops didn't allow straights to handle dangerous weapons. He had deliberately used police jargon for "honest citizens." In this city, a straight was anyone victimized by a thief. In some cities, victims were called "civilians." In any city, a thief was anyone who wasn't a cop, a straight, or a civilian. To the cops in this city, most thieves were "cheap" thieves.