A Body to die for

“Aren’t you going to write this down?”
    “I have a photographic memory.”
    “Oh,” he said, nodding. Another dunce. “Larry Black, just twenty-four but mature for my age. I live in the Bossert Hotel on Montague Street.”
    The Bossert was a massive two-square block apartment building populated exclusively by Jehovah’s Witnesses. Brooklyn Heights was the Jehovah headquarters for North America, has been for decades. In fact, the Jehovahs owned one-third of the Brooklyn Heights real estate, including some of the oldest and most beautiful examples of prewar Gothic architecture in the city. The Watchtower, their newsletter and national plea for converts, was published in plants on the dock of the East River and stored in warehouses under the Brooklyn Bridge. Midnight blue vans transport the flock from the Bossert and other Jehovah buildings to the printing plants every morning and then home every night. At noon on weekdays, streams of them walk up from the docks into the heart of the Heights for lunch, and at exactly one o’clock, they stream right back down in one big trickle. I’ve heard rumors that they eat only in cafeterias in the Bossert basement. They grow their own vegetables, sew their own clothes. Max calls them the “haircut people,” because they all have the same do, probably styled with the same bowl. Even the women.
    “Jehovah?” I asked this Larry Black. He had longish hair, tucked neatly behind his ears.
    “You got a problem with that?” he asked.
    I said, “Only if you do.” I would. The religion is baffling to an atheist like me. Only 144,000 of them (1,200 times 1,200—they use those numbers because of the twelve days of Christmas, the twelve apostles and the twelve Halloween movies) will go to heaven after the apocalypse. God chooses who gets to go based on how good a Jehovah you are, but the way to be a good Jehovah is to get converts. So the way to heaven is by creating competition for yourself. I prefer to demolish competition. It’s the American way. “How come you don’t work at the plant?” I asked.
    Larry shuffled his cross-trainers. “If you must know, I’ve decided to devote my life to physical fitness. It’s a very rewarding pursuit. You should try it.”
    The poor bastard was still looking for converts. “I’ve already decided to devote my life to fighting crime. Who was that girl and where can I find her?”
    “It’s my duty to help the police, but I don’t want to squeal.” He squirmed between the horns of his dilemma. “I mean, what kind of friend would I be if I told you her name? I could go to hell for that, drown in a field of blood, devoured by vultures of fire, choked by chains of hot lava.” His conviction heated as he spoke.
    “I didn’t know squealing was one of the seven deadly sins.”
    “Oh, yeah,” he said, nodding. “It falls under the adultery category.”
    I considered this. This whole discussion fell under the bullshit category to me, but I’ve learned over my years of gumshoeing to give zealots their eccentricities. “Does the phrase police brutality mean anything to you?” I asked.
    “For Pete’s sake, lady.” Larry blanched. He seemed nervous, but tried to hide it. “If you’re going to threaten violence, you might as well hit me now. I’m prepared to martyr myself.”
    I thought of Jack in his jail cell, lonely and desperate. I wondered if Max would put himself on the line for me. I knew Alex would—he had many times in capers past. Larry put his hands behind his back and closed his eyes like he was ready for a sock on the jaw. Never one to disappoint, I removed Mama, my pearl-handled .22, from my purse. The safety was on. I aimed the barrel at Larry’s chest. “Let’s see how brave you are now, sucker.” I have little tolerance for this kind of crap.
    Larry’s eyes fluttered open. He backed up against the freezer when he saw the gun. I said, “Your friend may be in big trouble, Larry. And here’s another secret—I’m not a cop. I’m a private detective working for Jack Watson. I like him. I don’t really know why. I’ve never been attracted to blonds, but he’s paying me. I want to know that woman’s name, and where she might be right now. And if you don’t tell me, I’ll shoot you.” So I lied. I half expected Larry to know that.
    He didn’t. He started to stammer. His eyes were wild. Then he passed out. Fainted clean away, leaving me holding the gun in my hand like a limp dick. Before I could