dizzyingly high station in life.
“I tried calling you several times last night,” Billy said.
“I unplugged the phone so I could drink some Scotch and sleep in peace.”
“Have you seen the papers this morning?”
“I just got UP.”
“You haven’t heard anything about Harris?”
“Who?”
“Graham Harris. The psychic.”
“Oh. No. Nothing. What’s to hear?”
“Get the papers, Dwight. And then we’d better have lunch. You are off
work today, aren’t you?”
“I’m always off Thursdays and Fridays. But what’s wrong?”
“The Daily News will tell you what’s wrong. Be sure to get a copy.
We’ll have lunch at The Leopard at eleven-thirty.
” Frowning, Bollinger said, “Look-”
“Eleven-thirty, Dwight.”
Billy hung up.
The day was dreary and cold. Thick dark clouds scudded southward; they
were so low they seemed to skim the tops of the highest buildings.
Three blocks from the restaurant, Bollinger left his taxi and bought the
Daily News at a kiosk. In his bulky coat and sweaters and gloves and
scarves and wool toboggan cap, the vendor looked like a mummy.
The lower half of the front page held a publicity photograph of Edna
Mowry provided by the Rhinestone Palace. She was smiling, quite lovely.
The upper half of the page featured bold black headlines: BUTCHER KILLS
NUMBER 10 PSYCHIC PREDICTS MURDER At the corner he turned to the second
page and tried to read the story while waiting for the traffic light to
change. The wind stung his eyes and made them water.
It rattled the paper in his hands and made it impossible for him to
read.
He crossed the street and stepped into the sheltered entrance way of an
office building. His teeth still chattering from the cold, but free of
the wind, he read about Graham Harris and Manhattan at Midnight.
His name is Dwight, Harris had said.
The police already know him, Harris had said.
Christ! How could the son of a bitch possibly know so much?
Psychic powers? That was a lot of bullshit. There weren’t such
things.
Were there?
Worried now, Bollinger walked to the corner, threw the newspaper into a
litter basket, hunched his shoulders against the wind, and hurried
toward the restaurant.
The Leopard, on Fiftieth Street near Second Avenue, was a charming
restaurant with only a handful of tables and excellent food. The dining
area was no larger than an average living room. A hideous display of
artificial flowers filled the center of the room, but that was the only
really outrageous element in a generally bland decor.
Billy was sitting at a choice table by the window. In an hour The
Leopard would be full of diners and noisy conversation. This early,
fifteen minutes or more before the executive lunch crowd could slip away
from conference rooms and desks, Billy was the only customer.
Bollinger sat opposite him. They shook hands and ordered drinks.
“Nasty weather,” Billy said. His Southern accent was heavy.
“Yes.” They stared at each other over the bud vase and single rose that
stood in the center of the table.
“Nasty news,” Billy said at last.
“Yes.
“What do you think?”
“This Harris is incredible,” Bollinger said.
“Dwight…. Nobody but me knows you by that name. He hasn’t given them
much of a clue.”
“My middle name’s on all my records-on my employee file at the
department.” Unfolding a linen napkin, Billy said, “They’ve got no
reason to believe the killer’s a policeman.”
“Harris told them they already knew the Butcher.”
“They’ll just suppose that he’s someone they’ve already questioned.”
Frowning, Bollinger said, “If he gives them one more bit of detail, one
more clue, I’m blown.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in psychics.”
“I was wrong. You were right.”
“Apology accepted,” Billy said, smiling thinly.
“This Harris-can we reason with him?”
“No.”
“He wouldn’t understand ?”
“He’s not one of us.”
The waiter came with their drinks.
When they were alone again, Bollinger said, “I’ve never seen this
Harris. What does he look like?”
“I’ll describe him to you later. Right now … do you mind telling me
what you’re going to do?”
Bollinger didn’t have to think about that. Without hesitation he said,
“Kill him.”
“Ah,” Billy said softly.