music stopped in mid-passage.
"Who is it?" a man called.
"Police," he answered.
"Police?" the man said. "What the hell?"
Carella heard footsteps approaching the door. The door did not open. Instead, the peephole flap rattled back, and the man said from within, "Let me see your badge, please."
Carella flashed the tin.
"Okay," the man said. The peephole flap fell back into place. Carella heard the lock click open. The door itself opened a moment later.
"Mr. Barragan?"
"That's me," the man said. He was a light-skinned Hispanic with a heavy black mustache under his aquiline nose, thick black hair styled to fall softly over his forehead and ears, dark brown eyes that studied Carella with curiosity now. "What's the trouble?" he asked.
"No trouble," Carella said. "I'm investigating a homicide, and I thought you might be able to help me. All right if I come in?"
Barragan looked at him. "Is this about Georgie?" he asked.
"Yes. You know he was killed then?"
"I read about it in the paper. Come on in," Barragan said, and stepped aside to let Carella by. Beyond the entrance foyer, Carella could see an open arch leading into a kitchen, another arch leading to a living room. A music stand was set up in the center of the living room, a straight-backed chair behind it. On the seat of the chair, Carella saw a flute-he'd been right about that.
"You want a beer or anything?" Barragan asked.
"Not allowed," Carella said, "but thanks."
"Mind if I have one? I've been practicing the past three hours, my throat's kinda dry."
"No, go right ahead," Carella said.
He waited in the foyer. In the kitchen, he saw Barragan opening first the refrigerator door, and then a can of beer. When he came back into the foyer again, he was carrying the beer can in one hand and a glass in the other. Together, they went into the living room and sat side by side on the couch. Through the large rain-streaked living room windows, Carella could see in the distance the elevated Calm's Point Expressway, bustling with traffic that edged slowly through the heavy rain.
Barragan poured beer into his glass, took a deep swallow, said, "Ahhh, good," and then put the can on the floor, and began sipping more leisurely from the glass. "What do you want to know?" he said.
"You played in a band years ago with George and-"
"Yes, I did," Barragan said.
"-and his brother Santo, is that right?"
"Santo, yeah. He played bongos. We had Georgie on guitar, me on flute, Santo on bongos and a guy named Freddie Bones on the steel drum. That's his real name, Freddie Bones. Black guy from Jamaica. It wasn't such a bad combo. I heard worse," Barragan said, and smiled. His teeth looked startlingly white under the thick black mustache.
"I want to know what happened seven years ago," Carella said.
"When Santo split, do you mean?"
"Did he split? Or did something happen to him?"
"Who knows?" Barragan said, and shrugged. "I'm assuming he split of his own accord. I mean, Georgie checked with the police later, and there was no kind of report about anything happening to Santo, so I figure he just decided to go, and he went."
"Where?" Carella said.
"I don't know where. California? Mexico? Europe? Who knows where somebody goes when he decides to go?"
"Why'd he decide to go?"
"Same reason the band broke up later."
"What was that?"
"Too much star power. Too much Georgie Chadderton. I hate to speak bad about the dead, but the man was a pain in the ass, you dig? A full-time ego trip. Thought the rest of us were there just to make him look good. I mean, shit, man, I'm a fair flute player, and Freddie was terrific on that steel drum, he could make that thing sound like a fuckin orchestra. So Georgie takes all the solos. On a guitar, no
"Who is it?" a man called.
"Police," he answered.
"Police?" the man said. "What the hell?"
Carella heard footsteps approaching the door. The door did not open. Instead, the peephole flap rattled back, and the man said from within, "Let me see your badge, please."
Carella flashed the tin.
"Okay," the man said. The peephole flap fell back into place. Carella heard the lock click open. The door itself opened a moment later.
"Mr. Barragan?"
"That's me," the man said. He was a light-skinned Hispanic with a heavy black mustache under his aquiline nose, thick black hair styled to fall softly over his forehead and ears, dark brown eyes that studied Carella with curiosity now. "What's the trouble?" he asked.
"No trouble," Carella said. "I'm investigating a homicide, and I thought you might be able to help me. All right if I come in?"
Barragan looked at him. "Is this about Georgie?" he asked.
"Yes. You know he was killed then?"
"I read about it in the paper. Come on in," Barragan said, and stepped aside to let Carella by. Beyond the entrance foyer, Carella could see an open arch leading into a kitchen, another arch leading to a living room. A music stand was set up in the center of the living room, a straight-backed chair behind it. On the seat of the chair, Carella saw a flute-he'd been right about that.
"You want a beer or anything?" Barragan asked.
"Not allowed," Carella said, "but thanks."
"Mind if I have one? I've been practicing the past three hours, my throat's kinda dry."
"No, go right ahead," Carella said.
He waited in the foyer. In the kitchen, he saw Barragan opening first the refrigerator door, and then a can of beer. When he came back into the foyer again, he was carrying the beer can in one hand and a glass in the other. Together, they went into the living room and sat side by side on the couch. Through the large rain-streaked living room windows, Carella could see in the distance the elevated Calm's Point Expressway, bustling with traffic that edged slowly through the heavy rain.
Barragan poured beer into his glass, took a deep swallow, said, "Ahhh, good," and then put the can on the floor, and began sipping more leisurely from the glass. "What do you want to know?" he said.
"You played in a band years ago with George and-"
"Yes, I did," Barragan said.
"-and his brother Santo, is that right?"
"Santo, yeah. He played bongos. We had Georgie on guitar, me on flute, Santo on bongos and a guy named Freddie Bones on the steel drum. That's his real name, Freddie Bones. Black guy from Jamaica. It wasn't such a bad combo. I heard worse," Barragan said, and smiled. His teeth looked startlingly white under the thick black mustache.
"I want to know what happened seven years ago," Carella said.
"When Santo split, do you mean?"
"Did he split? Or did something happen to him?"
"Who knows?" Barragan said, and shrugged. "I'm assuming he split of his own accord. I mean, Georgie checked with the police later, and there was no kind of report about anything happening to Santo, so I figure he just decided to go, and he went."
"Where?" Carella said.
"I don't know where. California? Mexico? Europe? Who knows where somebody goes when he decides to go?"
"Why'd he decide to go?"
"Same reason the band broke up later."
"What was that?"
"Too much star power. Too much Georgie Chadderton. I hate to speak bad about the dead, but the man was a pain in the ass, you dig? A full-time ego trip. Thought the rest of us were there just to make him look good. I mean, shit, man, I'm a fair flute player, and Freddie was terrific on that steel drum, he could make that thing sound like a fuckin orchestra. So Georgie takes all the solos. On a guitar, no