Fat Ollie's Book Read Free

terrorist bombing at Clarendon Hall, everybody in this city dressed like an American flag. Ollie figured half of them were faking it.
    â€œWe’re having a conversation here,” he said.
    â€œI’m sorry, sir, but I wanted to ask…”
    â€œYou know this man?” Ollie asked Pierce.
    â€œYes, he’s our press rep. Josh Coogan.”
    â€œExcuse me, Alan,” Coogan said, “but I was wondering if I should get back to headquarters. I know there’ll be hundreds of calls…”
    â€œNo, this is a crime scene,” Ollie said. “Stick around.”
    Coogan looked flustered for a moment. He was maybe twenty-four, twenty-five years old, but he suddenly looked like a high school kid who hadn’t done his assignment and had got called on while he was trying to catch a nap. Ollie didn’t have much sympathy for politicians, but all at once this seemed very sad here, two guys who all at once didn’t know what to do with themselves. He almost felt like taking them out for a beer. Instead, he said, “Were you here in the hall when all this happened, Mr. Coogan?”
    â€œYes, I was.”
    â€œWhere in the hall?”
    â€œIn the balcony.”
    â€œWhat were you doing up there?”
    â€œListening to sound checks.”
    â€œWhile you were listening to these sound checks, did you happen to hear the sound of a gun going off?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œIn the balcony?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThen where?”
    â€œFrom somewhere down below.”
    â€œWhere down below?”
    â€œThe stage.”
    â€œWhich side of the stage?”
    â€œI couldn’t tell.”
    â€œRight or left?”
    â€œI really couldn’t tell.”
    â€œWas anyone with you up there in the balcony?”
    â€œNo, I was alone.”
    â€œIncidentally, Mr. Pierce,” Ollie said, turning to him, “did I hear you tell those reporters you went upstate with Mr. Henderson?”
    â€œYes, I did.”
    â€œWhere upstate?”
    â€œThe capital.”
    â€œWhen?”
    â€œWe flew up together on Saturday morning. I’m his aide. I was his aide,” he said, correcting himself.
    â€œDid you fly back together, too?”
    â€œNo. I left on Sunday morning. Caught a seven A . M . plane.”
    â€œSo he spent all day Sunday up there alone, is that it?”
    â€œYes,” Pierce said. “Alone.”
    â€œYou the detective in charge here?” the ME asked.
    â€œI am,” Ollie said.
    â€œYour cause of death is gunshot wounds to the chest.”
    Big revelation, Ollie thought.
    â€œYou can move him out whenever you like. We may find some surprises at the morgue, but I doubt it. Good luck.”
    Monoghan was walking over with a man wearing a red bandana tied across his forehead, high-topped workman’s shoes, and bib overalls showing naked muscular arms, the left one tattooed on the bicep with the words SEMPER FIDELIS .
    â€œWeeks, this is Charles Mastroiani, man in charge of decorating the hall here, you might want to talk to him.”
    â€œNo relation to Marcello,” Mastroiani promptly told Ollie, which was a total waste since Ollie didn’t know who the hell he was talking about. “My company’s called Festive, Inc.,” he said, exuding a sense of professional pride and enthusiasm that was all too rare in today’s workplace. “We’re listed in the city’s yellow pages under ‘Decoration Contractors.’ What we do is we supply everything you need for a special occasion. I’m not talking about a wedding or a barmitzvah, those we leave to the caterers. Festive operates on a much larger scale. Dressing the stage here at King Memorial is a good example. We supplied the bunting, the balloons, the banners, the audio equipment, the lighting, everything. We would’ve supplied a band, too, if it was called for, but this wasn’t that kind of affair. As it was, we