recording the ceremonies on television tape. He might have film of the young woman they’re looking for.”
“Well, that’s very good. Who’s the young man?”
“I don’t really know,” Gloria said.
“Was he a follower of the Swami’s?”
“I don’t really think so. But he came here quite a bit and said that he would shoot pictures for us and someday make a documentary. He seemed harmless enough and nice, so I gave him permission to do some photographing here. As I say, he might have pictures of the girl with the flowers.”
“Well, that’s very helpful, Sister,” Sarge said.
“You’ll pass it along to the other detectives?” she asked.
“I certainly will,” Sarge said.
13
To Trace, New York was a dentist’s drill of a city, a kind of throbbing noise that came at him from all sides and gave him a headache. He found it bearable only at times like these, Sunday evenings, when the traffic was light and the city’s population seemed magically to have been halved.
Riding in the cab from the airport, he kept looking out the back window, until Chico said, “What are you doing?”
“Keeping an eye out for the ex-wife. She may have gotten word from her spies that I’m in town.”
“All right, knock it off,” she said. “We just got here and I don’t want you to start complaining right from the git-go.”
As they drove through Manhattan, Trace said, “What is this crap? I’ve been out of the city only a couple of months and already everything’s changed.”
“Like what?” Chico said.
“All the women are wearing sneakers, for Christ’s sake. What’s that all about? Look at them all. This damn city looks like a girl’s gym.”
“It’s the new fad,” Chico said. “Women wear sneakers on the street; they carry their shoes in their purses. Then, when they get where they’re going, they put on their shoes.”
“That’s stupid,” Trace said.
“It’s comfortable. Why should only men be comfortable?” Chico asked.
“If women want to be comfortable, they don’t have to wear sneakers. They should wear comfortable shoes.”
“There are no comfortable shoes for women,” Chico said. “Not unless you have a face like a horse, wear a nubby tweed suit that could sand wood, and live in Paddlington on the Puddlington.”
“Women are dopes as human beings,” Trace said.
“Fortunately the level of competition is real low,” Chico said.
“That’s right,” the cabdriver said. “Women are dopes.”
“Hey, pal, watch the road, huh?” Trace said. “We want to get there alive. And today if you don’t mind.”
“Sorry,” the cabdriver said. “I just thought you’d want to know somebody thinks you’re right. Women are dopes.”
Chico said, “Drive the freaking cab before I put a bullet between your eyes.”
Trace sighed. Chico with a gun was going to be something to deal with. The world would never be the same.
Nothing much had changed since the last time Trace had been to Sarge’s office, a second-floor walkup over Bogie’s Restaurant. The “C” had again fallen out of the sign on the door making it TRA Y DETECTIVE AGENCY.
There were still Playboy centerfolds on the walls, still a ratty old velveteen couch, two metal folding chairs, an old wooden burn-scarred desk that might have once belonged to a bookkeeper for a gambling syndicate who worked in the cellar of an olive-oil warehouse.
An improvement was the calendar on the wall behind the desk. Sarge was watering plants by the windows that looked out over the street when Trace and Chico entered. Chico looked around and said softly to Trace, “What a dump.”
“Improving,” Trace said. “Last time I was here, the calendar was three years old. Now he’s got a new one. Hello, Sarge,” he called out.
Sarge turned and smiled at them. He was a big man, not as tall as Trace but broader and bulkier. His face was ruddy, but it looked like outdoor living and not whiskey had caused that. He was a
“Well, that’s very good. Who’s the young man?”
“I don’t really know,” Gloria said.
“Was he a follower of the Swami’s?”
“I don’t really think so. But he came here quite a bit and said that he would shoot pictures for us and someday make a documentary. He seemed harmless enough and nice, so I gave him permission to do some photographing here. As I say, he might have pictures of the girl with the flowers.”
“Well, that’s very helpful, Sister,” Sarge said.
“You’ll pass it along to the other detectives?” she asked.
“I certainly will,” Sarge said.
13
To Trace, New York was a dentist’s drill of a city, a kind of throbbing noise that came at him from all sides and gave him a headache. He found it bearable only at times like these, Sunday evenings, when the traffic was light and the city’s population seemed magically to have been halved.
Riding in the cab from the airport, he kept looking out the back window, until Chico said, “What are you doing?”
“Keeping an eye out for the ex-wife. She may have gotten word from her spies that I’m in town.”
“All right, knock it off,” she said. “We just got here and I don’t want you to start complaining right from the git-go.”
As they drove through Manhattan, Trace said, “What is this crap? I’ve been out of the city only a couple of months and already everything’s changed.”
“Like what?” Chico said.
“All the women are wearing sneakers, for Christ’s sake. What’s that all about? Look at them all. This damn city looks like a girl’s gym.”
“It’s the new fad,” Chico said. “Women wear sneakers on the street; they carry their shoes in their purses. Then, when they get where they’re going, they put on their shoes.”
“That’s stupid,” Trace said.
“It’s comfortable. Why should only men be comfortable?” Chico asked.
“If women want to be comfortable, they don’t have to wear sneakers. They should wear comfortable shoes.”
“There are no comfortable shoes for women,” Chico said. “Not unless you have a face like a horse, wear a nubby tweed suit that could sand wood, and live in Paddlington on the Puddlington.”
“Women are dopes as human beings,” Trace said.
“Fortunately the level of competition is real low,” Chico said.
“That’s right,” the cabdriver said. “Women are dopes.”
“Hey, pal, watch the road, huh?” Trace said. “We want to get there alive. And today if you don’t mind.”
“Sorry,” the cabdriver said. “I just thought you’d want to know somebody thinks you’re right. Women are dopes.”
Chico said, “Drive the freaking cab before I put a bullet between your eyes.”
Trace sighed. Chico with a gun was going to be something to deal with. The world would never be the same.
Nothing much had changed since the last time Trace had been to Sarge’s office, a second-floor walkup over Bogie’s Restaurant. The “C” had again fallen out of the sign on the door making it TRA Y DETECTIVE AGENCY.
There were still Playboy centerfolds on the walls, still a ratty old velveteen couch, two metal folding chairs, an old wooden burn-scarred desk that might have once belonged to a bookkeeper for a gambling syndicate who worked in the cellar of an olive-oil warehouse.
An improvement was the calendar on the wall behind the desk. Sarge was watering plants by the windows that looked out over the street when Trace and Chico entered. Chico looked around and said softly to Trace, “What a dump.”
“Improving,” Trace said. “Last time I was here, the calendar was three years old. Now he’s got a new one. Hello, Sarge,” he called out.
Sarge turned and smiled at them. He was a big man, not as tall as Trace but broader and bulkier. His face was ruddy, but it looked like outdoor living and not whiskey had caused that. He was a
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