problem, pal. You know how to get there.”
Hatcher crossed the barroom and went through a door leading to Tommy’s office, and to an adjacent room in which two single beds were made up and waiting for occupants. Tommy maintained the room for moments like this, for a cop to crash after coming off a long shift, or a politician needing to sleep off too much booze before heading home. It was known to insiders as “Tommy’s Motel.”
As Hatcher tossed his suit jacket on one of the beds, he saw that perspiration had left dark rings in the armpits. He pulled down his tie and fell heavily on the second bed, letting out a prolonged sigh. He felt like hell. Once, on the ride from headquarters, he’d had to pull over when an excruciating stab of pain in his head caused momentary blindness. It lasted only a few seconds, but long enough to concern him.
He closed his eyes and sleep came almost immediately, but didn’t last long. A series of dreams kept waking him. He tried to grab hold of them but their fragments vanished as quickly and suddenly as they’d materialized. But not all. Once, he awoke suddenly, sat up, and let out a moan as he saw his daughter, Christina, as a small girl, standing on the edge of a building. “Don’t,” he said, reaching for her. But she fell, face-first, her arms outstretched as though in a swan dive, leaving Hatcher looking over the precipice and seeing her small body smash to the sidewalk many floors below.
He wiped sweat from his face with his hand and tried to nod off again, but a succession of similar dreams made that impossible. In one, tethered to a long rope attached somewhere high in the sky, he spun out of control in a vast void, around and around, until the rope broke and he disappeared.
After a half hour, he slowly got to his feet and looked in a small mirror on the wall. “What the hell is going on?” he asked aloud. He knew he should go home, but Mae would see that he wasn’t well and insist he see a doctor.
He went to the men’s room, where he splashed cold water on his face, returned to fetch his jacket, and rejoined Gillette in the barroom. Virtually empty when he’d arrived, the bar now had a dozen customers. Hatcher went to a small bistro table out of the mainstream and ordered a double bourbon from the waitress, Jill, who’d worked at Tommy G’s since it opened. He recognized some of the people at the bar; a few waved to him.
“Something to eat, Hatch?” Jill asked when she delivered his drink.
“Yeah, thanks. Baked stuffed clams and some bread, huh?”
Maybe that’s what I need, he thought, some food in my belly.
Tommy G. joined him. “You okay?” he asked. “You don’t look good.”
“Ah, I’ve got some kind’a bug, some kind’a flu.”
“It’s goin’ around. Too many germs, you know?”
“Yeah, I know.”
“You still working that hooker murder?” Tommy asked.
“Yup.”
Tommy lowered his voice. “I did a little asking around of my own, Hatch. You know, we get some working girls come in later at night. I don’t mind as long as they don’t flaunt it. Anyway, I asked a few whether they knew this gal—what was her name?”
“Curzon. Rosalie Curzon.”
“Right. Rosie Curzon. I asked whether they knew her.” He grinned. “These types hang around together, you know. Anyway, one of them says she met her a few times but it was a while ago.”
Jill delivered Hatch’s food.
“No tab,” Tommy told her. There never was a tab for Hatcher, but he always tipped big.
“I bet there’s a few guys around town looking over their shoulders, huh?” Tommy said.
Hatcher agreed through his first mouthful of bread and clams.
“I know a couple of regulars here are hoping she didn’t keep a little black book.”
Hatcher said nothing.
“Did she, Hatch? Keep a book with her johns’ names in it?”
“I don’t think so, Tommy. No, she didn’t.”
Tommy’s expression said he didn’t buy it, but he didn’t press.
“Anyway,” he said,
Hatcher crossed the barroom and went through a door leading to Tommy’s office, and to an adjacent room in which two single beds were made up and waiting for occupants. Tommy maintained the room for moments like this, for a cop to crash after coming off a long shift, or a politician needing to sleep off too much booze before heading home. It was known to insiders as “Tommy’s Motel.”
As Hatcher tossed his suit jacket on one of the beds, he saw that perspiration had left dark rings in the armpits. He pulled down his tie and fell heavily on the second bed, letting out a prolonged sigh. He felt like hell. Once, on the ride from headquarters, he’d had to pull over when an excruciating stab of pain in his head caused momentary blindness. It lasted only a few seconds, but long enough to concern him.
He closed his eyes and sleep came almost immediately, but didn’t last long. A series of dreams kept waking him. He tried to grab hold of them but their fragments vanished as quickly and suddenly as they’d materialized. But not all. Once, he awoke suddenly, sat up, and let out a moan as he saw his daughter, Christina, as a small girl, standing on the edge of a building. “Don’t,” he said, reaching for her. But she fell, face-first, her arms outstretched as though in a swan dive, leaving Hatcher looking over the precipice and seeing her small body smash to the sidewalk many floors below.
He wiped sweat from his face with his hand and tried to nod off again, but a succession of similar dreams made that impossible. In one, tethered to a long rope attached somewhere high in the sky, he spun out of control in a vast void, around and around, until the rope broke and he disappeared.
After a half hour, he slowly got to his feet and looked in a small mirror on the wall. “What the hell is going on?” he asked aloud. He knew he should go home, but Mae would see that he wasn’t well and insist he see a doctor.
He went to the men’s room, where he splashed cold water on his face, returned to fetch his jacket, and rejoined Gillette in the barroom. Virtually empty when he’d arrived, the bar now had a dozen customers. Hatcher went to a small bistro table out of the mainstream and ordered a double bourbon from the waitress, Jill, who’d worked at Tommy G’s since it opened. He recognized some of the people at the bar; a few waved to him.
“Something to eat, Hatch?” Jill asked when she delivered his drink.
“Yeah, thanks. Baked stuffed clams and some bread, huh?”
Maybe that’s what I need, he thought, some food in my belly.
Tommy G. joined him. “You okay?” he asked. “You don’t look good.”
“Ah, I’ve got some kind’a bug, some kind’a flu.”
“It’s goin’ around. Too many germs, you know?”
“Yeah, I know.”
“You still working that hooker murder?” Tommy asked.
“Yup.”
Tommy lowered his voice. “I did a little asking around of my own, Hatch. You know, we get some working girls come in later at night. I don’t mind as long as they don’t flaunt it. Anyway, I asked a few whether they knew this gal—what was her name?”
“Curzon. Rosalie Curzon.”
“Right. Rosie Curzon. I asked whether they knew her.” He grinned. “These types hang around together, you know. Anyway, one of them says she met her a few times but it was a while ago.”
Jill delivered Hatch’s food.
“No tab,” Tommy told her. There never was a tab for Hatcher, but he always tipped big.
“I bet there’s a few guys around town looking over their shoulders, huh?” Tommy said.
Hatcher agreed through his first mouthful of bread and clams.
“I know a couple of regulars here are hoping she didn’t keep a little black book.”
Hatcher said nothing.
“Did she, Hatch? Keep a book with her johns’ names in it?”
“I don’t think so, Tommy. No, she didn’t.”
Tommy’s expression said he didn’t buy it, but he didn’t press.
“Anyway,” he said,
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